


he is half of my soul (as the poets say)

by chellian



Series: Aid-verse [3]
Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Identity Issues, Immortals, Implied Sexual Content, Memory Loss, Multi, Prophetic Dreams, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 99,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellian/pseuds/chellian
Summary: He gives the blueprint of his dream weapon — at the moment —  towards the lead scientist. “I wish for you to make a weapon as simple yet as divine as this; it must have a power to be used against someone.”The scientist stares at the blueprints with a mixed expression, which the Third Reich did not like at all. His dark blue eyes look up to see his leader staring down at him, and he fixes his glasses, shivering a little. “We shall make sure we will turn this weapon into a reality. Mein Führer , what is your deadline for such a weapon as complicated as this?”“You can work on it as slow or as fast as you can”, he replies, motioning to leave, “but I await its debut during an incoming war.”He nods rapidly, “We will be able to finish this in a year, mein Führer .”“Good.” He opens the door, but his emerald eyes are on them. “You all know the consequences when you finish behind the deadline.”-The United Kingdom and the Allies prepare for a war.The Third Reich is a threat.But threats are always obliterated.But there's a problem.The Third Reich knows everyone's vulnerability, even Britain's.And he exploits that weakness.
Relationships: France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic)
Series: Aid-verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577644
Comments: 17
Kudos: 19





	1. PART I: AURORAE

**Author's Note:**

> So... after a month of writing this MONSTER of a fic, I've finally uploaded it (with a cover!). Actually, this concept is not original, and I was inspired from a webcomic I really, REALLY liked ([webcomic link](https://comicaurora.com/aurora/0-1-1/)). So when I was rereading it, I was like, "hey, this could be also commendable to a fusion". Aaanddd... here it is. Writing this has been an absolute journey; I was in dark places so a few of what I wrote can reflect that, and some relationships are based on real ones, basically like that. This was a very therapeutic experience for me, and now you get to read them.  
> This has about 5 parts in total, but I'm not updating them all at once because I don't want to give you blessings TOO MUCH, but I do hope you had fun reading this.  
> Oh and I'll make a trivia in the ending notes once I upload the fifth part~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part's moving slowly, but don't worry, we'll get there!  
> i hoped that i established Britain and France's (and also the Third Reich's) character properly without demonstration of their power. (i'm not good at bringing up sensitive topics of colonialism cause i'm afraid i'll get something slightly wrong)  
> i also do hope that i'm able to portray France and Britain's relationship properly as the entire work goes on  
> btw, as this part progresses, the current time frame from the beginning towards the end of this part is 1932~1940.

**PART I: AURORAE**

_“We everlasting gods… Ah what chilling blows_

_We suffer — thanks to our own conflicting wills —_

_Whenever we show these mortal men some kindness.”_

\- The Iliad, Homer

“ _Alles klar West, gute Nacht_ ”, Third Reich says in a cold and steely voice, enough for Weimar’s — _his_ — child to cower under his bedsheets. _Schwächling_.

“ _G-Gute Nacht, Vater_ ”, he stutters, his sky blue eyes trembling, hiding underneath his blanket; god, he reminds him of his failure of a father. “ _W-Wir sehen uns am Morgen_.”

He frowns at his response. “We will have a _talk_ in the morning regarding your behaviour.”

West leans back, his entire body shaking. “ _E-Es tut mir l-leid, wenn ich etwas falsch gemacht habe, V-Vater_.”

He sighs exhaustedly, closing the door and letting West have peace.

He walks through the hallways of his own home; he had just bid goodnight to his children (who were still afraid of him— _good_ ) and now he must check on whether or not the weapons to defeat his enemies are complete. The halls are dark, empty, lonesome, but it was home; that bumbling idiot Weimar kept the lights up in dark hours, with the excuse of his children being able to navigate their home. Well, he was gone now, replaced only with himself.

He opens and closes his fist, feeling the air around him compressing and releasing every time his fist moves.

He inhales and exhales— he can’t get over reveling at the fact that he now has a body, where he could move, talk, live, and talk about _revenge_ openly with others.

It was everything he ever dreamt of, and he got it all because of a stuttering, anxious halfwit wanting another chance at life.

For a price; which was his own sentience corroding into dust once Third Reich took the wheels.

He almost felt _sorry_ that this was how things ended.

His crimson eyes glint with excitement and malevolence; after all, he has to check whether or not the weapons have been complete.

If they are, then he will show the entire world how much power the Deutsches Family has over its neighbors.

He licks his lips, fantasising the day he will be able to rule the world— Aryans at the top, and all those species that are not Aryan falling to their deaths.

The sight of dead bodies make him feel better; they used to be alive, but now they were all life-less corpses, with cold skin and dead eyes staring up at the sky dreaming about what could have been. It makes him _revel_ at how he will save his race from corruption.

He smiles at the thought, making his way outside, now thinking of the past.

Back then he was a part of someone’s mind; a body-less voice that had appeared in that fool’s head after a war _humiliated_ the Germans, and he agreed all by himself that he must help Weimar get Germany back on its feet.

That’s when he realised he was no ordinary thought process— he _ascends_ all kinds of thoughts.

What kind of thought _decides_ and _thinks_ to itself?

He was better than all kinds of thoughts, and he wants a say in what Weimar must do.

He appears before him as a hallucination whilst he was high off of cocaine— what Weimar thought was a hallucination of his defeatist self, was just himself but… more powerful.

He was _everything_ Weimar should have been, and he crumbled just from a few insults and comments about the state of their government.

So he continues on giving him advice — advice that Weimar either takes or doesn’t — desiring for Weimar to climb back on top, back to where his other predecessors used to be.

But as he keeps giving him all kinds of advice (that Weimar either classifies as ‘commonly petrifying’ or ‘downright _psychopathic_ ’), he grasps the reason why Weimar wasn’t so respected or feared as his father or his grandfather: he was demure, meek, quiet; all features that a _man_ should not have.

(His father had been right about him.)

And so, he starts desiring for a body— _Weimar’s_ body, in particular.

After all, _no one_ wants him to stay alive, and the world has never been kind to him.

Perhaps the world would be kinder to the Third Reich.

(He gave himself a name; a name he carries on to today.)

And after that enlightening realisation, he tries convincing Weimar to give him his body; it works from time-to-time, such as whenever Weimar wants to blow off some steam, he’d take over right away. He’d make the poor, miserable man’s life even more liveable, make his disappointed grandfather less disappointed in him, and his children—

Ah yes, his _children_.

For some reason, those naive little bugs _never_ saw the appeal in Third Reich, preferring that weakling they call Papa rather than he, the obviously _better_ candidate of the two. They were irritatingly optimistic, infuriatingly sensitive, and exasperatingly emotional, a single insult towards them enough to make one of them cry.

He blames Weimar for coddling and giving his children too much compassion; they will be easier to harm, to hurt.

It wasn’t his father’s fault he had been so hard on him— even when he had tucked all of the lessons he taught to his son on his head, he refused to change, still being himself.

It is one of the many aspects of Weimar that confuses him; he still chooses to cling on to the elements that make him himself rather than letting them go to appease everyone he loves.

Well, it was because his mother’s love meant to him more than his father’s approval.

It was a lonesome and quiet night— just like all the other nights. The moon was shining above them, bright yet dim at the same time, the leaves crinkling underneath his footsteps, and the crickets making hollow tunes for the night.

He takes a breath, trying to untangle the knots of excitement that had been hoarding his appetite since this morning.

The night’s breeze was cold, but his skin temperature was colder, perhaps even colder than the Arctic. He makes a few turns, left, right, centre, until he reaches the City Hall. He gives the building a smirk, before entering, noticing that the lights were still lit during this hour.

He greets the guards with a nod of his head; they greet him with the salute, making his inside light up with pride and power.

The Third Reich is powerful, perhaps _too_ powerful— his rise to power made the other countries wary of what he is about to do.

Well, they should be.

He can see the fear in their eyes, their suspicions to his motives heightening and making the tension last longer than it should.

Whenever he walks by, instead of getting taunts or insults like Weimar had, he had gotten small, quiet glares, a frightened gasp when someone realises that they were near the Third Reich, and everyone goes silent as he walks by. Weimar will wish that he had gotten the same treatment— of being feared and respected.

That man had wasted all his life kissing his mother’s feet that he had not even thought of being feared while he was still living.

Well, he was about to change that.

He enters a room full of scientists chattering to themselves silently— they are hardworking, aiding the Third Reich with their new inventions to further fuel his power.

They are quite valuable and useful; dogs that follow him around.

“ _Guten Abend alle zusammen_ ”, he greets everyone in the room with a nod — with a hidden glee, in his eyes — and everyone salutes and praises him. “I wish for all of us to cooperate in the same workspace; after all, we are preparing for a war.”

One of the lead scientists stepped forward. “We were just discussing blueprints, _mein Führer_.”

He raises a brow, “Ah, I’m sorry for disturbing you in such an hour.”

Even before the lead scientist opens his mouth, he already knows what his answer is. “It is of no worries, _mein Führer_ , for we have been graced with a presence as divine as you.”

He smiles, soaking up all the praises and grateful looks the men have given him in this room.

He really _is_ a god.

“What brings you here, _mein Exzellenz_?”

“Ah, I was here to give you blueprints for a new invention I wish to use”, he looks at the various machines whirring, licking his lips, “but it seems that you are all already preoccupied, and I would not like to disturb you.”

He just said that on purpose, always expecting what their response is.

“ _Nein, nein_ , you did not disturb anything, _mein Führer_.”

“I did not?”

“ _Ganz und gar nicht_.”

He smiles innocently, “Well that sounds wonderful!”

“Do you have any requests, _mein Führer_?”

“Well, I for sure have one.” He takes out a crumpled up blueprint he had sketched while being distracted during a meeting. The only thing he is thankful to Weimar for is that he had attained his innate artistic skills.

(It is almost a shame he had burnt most of Weimar’s portraits— they just don’t look appealing in the eyes.)

He gives the blueprint of his dream weapon — at the moment — towards the lead scientist. “I wish for you to make a weapon as simple yet as divine as this; it must have a power to be used against someone.”

The scientist stares at the blueprints with a mixed expression, which the Third Reich did not like at all. His dark blue eyes look up to see his leader staring down at him, and he fixes his glasses, shivering a little. “We shall make sure we will turn this weapon into a reality. _Mein Führer_ , what is your deadline for such a weapon as complicated as this?”

“You can work on it as slow or as fast as you can”, he replies, motioning to leave, “but I await its debut during an incoming war.”

He nods rapidly, “We will be able to finish this in a year, _mein Führer_.”

“You don't have to finish this in a year, just finish it when it is already time for a war.” He opens the door, but his emerald eyes are on them. “You all know the consequences when you finish behind the deadline.”

The lead scientist gulps, “We will not let you down, as you have spoiled us rotten with gifts, it is fair to help you with something, _mein Führer_.”

“You will not let me down, understand?” he says in a superior tone. “If you did, all of my hard work would have been for nothing.”

“We will _never_ let you down, _mein Führer_.”

He peers at them with one last condescending look, before sighing. “ _Dan mal gute Nacht_.”

* * *

Britain had a dream last night.

He was standing frozen in a battlefield, still like a statue. 

He was confused, he remembered— why was he having dreams about the Great War?

They _were_ victorious against the Germans, but why does he have a dream about the war?

He rarely has dreams about the war; it was like he does not carry the same guilt as his opponents or his own rivals.

It was like he had no remorse.

(Well, it was relieving, not to have guilt over what he’d done, but it was too _peculiar_ enough to question his feelings.)

He was in a battlefield; but there was something different about this dream.

It was familiar in a way— tanks, soldiers running and dying, ruins of a city, but the location was somewhat… _unfamiliar_.

He hears thunder clapping against the sky, and he looks up; his multi-coloured eyes shift with surprise and curiosity. The clouds darken, as if someone above them was controlling the weather to affect the weather, and the booming of thunder becomes louder, like something — or someone — was giant enough to shake the entire earth. Lightning crackles, almost landing a hit on him, scaring him enough to move, breath hitching.

This was _not_ one of the places they fought in during the Great War.

But why does it feel so amicable, like he was living in a memory that has not happened yet.

A scream erupts, somewhere beyond the forests and the trenches.

It was oddly familiar— too intimate for his tastes.

He breaks into a run, knowing whose scream that had been. Panic and adrenaline rose inside of his chest, curiosity and fear to why she had been screaming like a ghost had caught her.

(Even she out of all people would not be scared of a ghost jumping in and inducing fear in her.)

He jumps through wounded and dead soldiers, avoids uprooted tree roots, and dodges low-lying branches just to get to her in time.

The person he loves is in _danger_.

But why was she in danger?

She’s never been in danger during the Great War, has she?

He didn’t know; that was the most crucial thing.

So he runs; runs past everything he has ever known, ever heard of, until the battlefield with all those forests and ruined cities and dying soldiers was past him. His legs were aching, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He’ll only stop once he finally sees the woman he loves, praying to god above that she is okay and not a scratch was laid upon her.

He stops abruptly.

There was someone else with his woman.

He grits his teeth, his eyes flaring at the sight of his beloved in a choke-hold with this strange man. He tries to get a closer look at this man, but even his face was covered with cloth— or something resembling cloth, as it does not billow with the winds.

“Who the bloody hell are you?!” he demands, clenching his fist. “Let go of my dame right now!”

He does not reply, which makes him even angrier.

“You’re not going to respond, are you?” he says, the fire inside him burning even further. “ _Let her go_ ! I _mean_ it!” With a running start, he pounces on his love’s assailant, intending on killing him.

His heart stopped, and everything was in slow motion.

Stop the man with _what_?

The assailant dodges his attack, and he is falling into a pit full of — alarmingly enough — bodies. He gasps at the sight of it, but before he could backtrack, he was already falling into the pit of bodies.

Before he can only see darkness, he sees his lover’s assailant unmasking himself—

To his own puzzlement and horror, the person who had been attempting to kill his lover was;

Himself.

Dark blue eyes glint with joy as he falls into the abyss.

And, like reality respawning, he wakes up covered in his own sweat.

* * *

There is a storm brewing, beyond his home and the city he has grown comfortably close in.

But there was a storm brewing inside of him as well— but knowing him he will have to quell the storm he’d made inside of himself alone.

A hand touches his face, and warmth implodes at that location. A hole of light appears, trying to intervene with the storm inside of him but it covers the remainder of light up.

“Good morning _, mon amour_ ”, France says, her lips finding his cheeks, and once again warmth makes its way to even the darkest and coldest caverns of his mind. Her dark blue eyes stare back at his own; eyes that shift from colour to colour, honoring the fusion’s occupants inside of him. “How are ya, sweetie? You seem… out of your mind.”

“I’m fine”, he mutters softly, his hands holding onto his bed sheets, staring at the window. Unsurprisingly, today was cloudy, grey clouds visible and spreading across the sky at an alarming rate. “I just had a rather strange dream.”

She tilts her head, her dark brown curls bouncing; honestly, it looks quite adorable. “What was it about? You can tell me.”

Her bare body leans towards him, enticing him enough that to the point he wants to tell her the truth. He bites his lip; he was lucky to have someone as fierce yet as gentle as her in his life. Only the bed sheets were covering them, but he does not care, and he is pretty sure France does not as well.

“It was quite a concerning dream”, he whispers in her ear, and to his enjoyment, her skin tingles and she shivers, “would you want to hear it?”

“As long as it is affecting your feelings right now.” Her warm breath was enough to give his own skin goosebumps, flustering him. “You can tell me.”

“You are good at making me tell everything, my dame”, he says with a smirk, kissing her in the lips, mesmerised by how soft her lips were. “You must have been born with a gift.”

She chuckles sweetly, a sound that makes his heart skip a beat. “I do not; you just look like you’ve seen a ghost, starin’ at the windows.”

“I just thought it was going to rain”, he replies, “that is why I have been looking at the windows with what seems to be a mesmerizing manner.”

“You are bent on trying to avoid the question of what has transpired in your dream.”

His eyes widened, forgetting how perceptive France was. “It is complicated to remember.”

Her head falls on his lap. “Then give me a few things you remember about it.”

Britain’s hands shift through her hair, in love with how soft and smooth it was. “Well, just like today, there was a storm brewing in my dream.”

She raises her brows. “Go on.”

He continues, furrowing his brows, “Then… I was standing in a battlefield; what’s unusual about this is that we have not battled in that particular area…”

She perks up at that, “Do you know where you were in your dream?”

He stares at her, before sighing. “I do not remember, but it was both familiar and not, like we had both been there.”

“What do you mean ‘we’? Was I there with you in that dream?”

He shudders, remembering the scream that had emitted from France’s throat in his dream. “Yes, you were there.”

“What was I doing in there?”

His eyes glint with remembrance, and he emits a sigh, “I heard you scream deep in the woods.”

She raises a brow, “I feel like you are just doing this for dramatics.”

Britain lets out a laugh, “I _am_ known for being dramatic, my sweet.”

She chuckles, kissing him on the cheek. “I know; it’s why you are so entertaining.”

“Is that the only reason why you love me?”

His woman lets out another sweet laugh; the tone of her voice aging like fine wine. It was like his nectar and ambrosia, filling him with strength. He caresses her, enjoying how beautiful she was, and how much she would rival every existing goddess of beauty out there. She was… _different_.

“I love you for more than that”, she replies with a sweet smile, her hands on his face, “you being dramatic is just one of your most defining assets.”

“It is like you are not dramatic yourself, France.”

She smirks, “I did not scream like a little girl when I stubbed my toe during a meeting.”

His face flushes; he was both mesmerised and outraged by her statement. How could she say something like that but still remain sweet? “Who told you?”

She shrugs, “Belgium told me.”

“That pestering rat…” he mutters underneath his breath, before he surprises France by spreading kisses across her skin, like a swarm of butterflies landing on her.

It surprises her, and before she knows it she starts to laugh, her fingers gripping onto Britain’s body. He counts the seconds of pure submission from his lover before she grips the reins once again.

Her grip on his arm tightens and she gently kicks him off of her with her legs, giving her time to get on top of him.

 _Fifteen seconds_.

“ _Bretagne_ , you are one sneaky fellow”, she says, her eyes full of desire. “Perhaps I should repay you with a fruitful of affection on my part?”

He stares at her, smirking, “I’d love that.”

* * *

“I never liked meeting days”, France says, staring at the League of Nations building with grimace.

“Neither do I”, Britain replies, his arm around France’s shoulders. “It takes a lot of _alone time_ from us.”

“ _And_ also my time for writing my novels.” She turns to look at him, desire hidden in her eyes. “But mostly ‘cause I love the way you touch me, _Bretagne_.”

He leans forward until his lips touch her skin. “I love the way you touch me too; warm and hot.”

She chuckles, “Oh _Bretagne_.”

“Ah!” Belgium perks up once Britain and France enter the building, hand-in-hand. “How have the jolly couple been lately?”

France snorts, “I’m doing fine, but I’m pretty sure Britain’s happy game’s becomin’ weak each day we are in bed.”

“Hey”, Britain snaps his neck to her direction indignantly. “That was uncalled for.”

“I asked how have you two been, not how has your sex life been”, Belgium replies with a repulsed look.

“Aw, don’t worry, _mon fils_ , I was just snaking around”, she tells her son.

“Please don’t phrase it like that ever again.”

“My apologies for how snarky your mother is”, Britain says. “She took it from me.”

France rolls her eyes, “I did not.”

Belgium sighs, scratching his hair, “Alright, well, I best be going now; Luxembourg and Father are waiting in the meeting room. And… be careful of the Third Reich; he’s already here.”

“We’ll be catchin’ up”, France calls after him.

Once her son turns and vanishes across the hallway, she sighs and turns to her lover. “It is quite exhausting that Weimar is still the big talk around here.”

“His name is Third Reich now, remember?” he tells her.

“I know”, she snarks, “but it sounds… _strange_ , like he is trying to recreate an empire.”

“I’ve heard that they started concentration camps for Third Reich’s political rivals”, he states. “It sounds familiar.”

“Let us not go through memory lane, shall we?” She tugs on his arm, forcing him to walk until they reach the meeting room. She forces a pleasant smile on her face as she is confronted by the other European nations. “Good morning, everyone.”

The others greet her with strained ‘good mornings’ and whatnot; they are particularly quiet today, like a soft rainstorm pouring around them is dampening their usual lively moods.

“What seems to be making your moods sour?” Britain asks.

“Nothing”, Netherlands replies with an exhausted tone. “Some greaseball here just decided to ruin the mood today.”

France raises a brow, “And who did?”

“Perhaps they were talking about me.” A newer and colder voice enters the room, making the couple stiffen.

Britain slightly jumps, and he turns his back to face the Third Reich, his face ever-so smug and triumphant. Out of slight embarrassment, he clears his throat and stands closer to his moll. “Good morning, Third Reich.” He makes sure he gets his cold and frigid tone across; instead of dissuading him, he smiles.

“You both are late,” he raises a brow, “too busy doing something else, hm?”

“None of your business, you egg”, France snaps, glaring at him, “go back to your seat.”

He sighs, “You wound me.”

Britain narrows his eyes towards him, “No, you wound _us_.”

He frowns, shaking his head like a disapproving father. “You don’t _get_ to talk to me like that; not anymore, at least.”

* * *

“Storm’s a brewin’.” Belgium says as he, Britain, and France exit the building. “Didn’t think I’d see one being conjured up by someone above us.”

“It always rains here”, Britain replies, taking a deep breath, his nostrils being blessed by the smell of damp air and grass. “It smells quite nice.”

France giggles, “You’re the only one who thinks cloud juice smells pleasant.”

“It’s a different kinda storm”, Belgium states, scratching his light hair, “it’s so _pitch black_.”

Britain opens his mouth, remembering his dream. “I had a dream like this.”

France glances at him, “The same dream as this morning?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t finish it.”

“Why would I finish it? Am I going to tell you what my dream was while we’re doing the old slithery?”

She reddens and hits his shoulder affectionately. “You could’ve told me after.”

“We were late for the meeting.”

“Don’t talk about what you were doing behind doors out in the open, please”, Belgium says, rolling his eyes. “It scares me.”

“My apologies, dear,” France replies with a wave of her hand, “Britain and I are going to head out to a cafe for lunch; would you like to join us?”

“Er, no. I don’t want to get in the way of your love life, mother.”

“Come on, you look like you haven’t eaten in a day!”

“On a diet.”

She gives her son a small look of derisiveness. “Are you really?”

“I’ve been feeding off of dog’s soup for a full month, just so you know.”

“And you’re _proud_ of that achievement?”

Belgium gives his mother a pointed look, “Just wanna try somethin’ new.” 

“You won’t try anythin’ new if you’re going to go and starve yourself.”

“Mom, I can handle myself”, Belgium says with a sigh.

“You can’t handle yourself if you keep living off of dog soup, sweetie”, she replies, fixing his hair. “Come now, Britain and I’ll give you a dish to eat.”

“I’m fine now”, her son replies, slipping from her grip, “‘sides, I gotta meet with my brother and dad, so toodles!”

He immediately ran to his brother’s automobile, giving his mother one last little wave before he and Luxembourg drove off.

France sighs, “Kids these days.”

Britain laughs, “You haven’t taught them much discipline; look at my children for instance, I drilled the art of discipline into their head.”

She laughs, “Even your daughter?”

Britain grimaces at the mention of the United States. “Back in the day.”

“Now, don’t be like that, she’s very pleasant to be around with!” She drones on while Britain starts their automobile, readying it for their date.

“Because all you two blab about is makeup and boys.” He revs up the engine. “Basically, woman business.”

“There are more things we blab about rather than those two”, she huffs, “but nonetheless, she is pleasant to talk to.”

“I doubt that.”

“Well, if you don’t have anything nice to say about your daughter, you could bug off and start drivin’.”

He grunts, “I’m already doing that, doll.”

The wheels of the automobile skid off to the road, leaving track marks as they find the perfect restaurant to eat lunch in.

* * *

“ _Mein Führer_ , our troops and our machines are ready”, one of Third Reich’s generals say as they walk with their leader.

“Good”, Third Reich replies with a serene smile on his face, anticipating a confrontation already.

“Shall we prepare for a battle?”

He shakes his head. “No, not yet.”

“But why, _mein Führer_? The soldiers are prepared to take back the land those dirty backhanded species stole from us!”

He raises a hand, and his general falls silent. “Because we are simply not ready yet, and even _I_ am not ready for a battle that may last a lifetime.”

“We are sure that the Reich will last a thousand years, _mein Führer_.”

He narrows his eyes, “I am sure of it as well.” He steps forward to admire Berlin, his capital; the old man had been heavily reliant on him ever since he realised he was a better fit than Weimar. He had tolerated his old friend’s visions and promises, but when push comes to shove, he will prefer the Third Reich than that fool.

The Third Reich takes a deep breath. “Call Berlin, I believe we both have something to talk about.”

“Of course, _mein Führer_.” He does the salute as a form of goodbye (honestly, he loves the way it speaks to him), before exiting his room.

He takes a deep breath, _Alone at last_.

 _You’re planning on putting my son in an asylum, are you_?

Alone with the voice in his head.

He snorts; the tables have turned.

“Weimar, don’t act like you were even a good father to West”, he says with a laugh, “he reminds me too much of you, and is less stronger than his sister.” He sighs. “Too bad she is a woman.”

 _He may have been born with an illness, but he is still my son_ ! Weimar snaps in his head. _I did not let him leave the house because I was trying to protect him_!

“Calm down, _mein Freund_ ”, he says nonchalantly, “you’re lying to yourself; ever since Austria told you that he was different from all the other children, your hatred towards your son.”

 _He doesn’t deserve dying in an asylum_!

He chuckles, “Why would I? His own existence will make the Aryans look like fools!” His eyes darken. “You’re quite lucky I didn’t order an assassin to kill him.”

 _That’s even_ worse! Weimar sobs. _You promised me you’d take care of my children_!

“I _am_ ”, he retorts, getting more and more annoyed with his alter ego. “In my own way, at least.”

 _You’re_ not _taking care of them_ , Weimar replies, _you’re only_ using _them_.

He huffs, “Perhaps I am, but what do _you_ know?”

 _I know that you were the worst person I’ve picked to be my friend_ , Weimar replies, _I regret listening to your tempting words_.

“You said it yourself; I am tempting.” He smiles. “And the world will be mine once again.”

 _You say it so surely_ — _but my father was also sure he will win the War, and look where it got him_.

“The Deutsches Reich is smart. I will give him that, but he let his pride get in over his head. But I am the better leader, and I will lead the Aryans to victory and _crush_ our enemies in brutal ways.”

Weimar inwardly sighs, defeated. _And you believe this is the only way we can win_?

“For sure.”

* * *

Britain has another dream again.

This time, he was in a hospital with wounded soldiers.

(Seriously, what is it with his subconscious and dead soldiers? Is the dam of guilt finally breaking after centuries of keeping it at bay?)

He was in a hospital bed himself, but he — thankfully — didn’t look injured.

But he felt pain in every joint of his body, especially when he moves his limbs, like he was a practical living doll, controlled by the puppet masters. It’s already seconds into his dream, but he already hates every minute of it.

“ _Brittannië_!” A familiar voice reaches his ears, and he strains to face the direction of his voice, his neck cracking and twisting in every turn.

“Ah, Nether—”

He stops, shutting his mouth out of shock.

If the man in front of him is Netherlands, he does not have a face; distorted beyond comprehension, like he was looking at a grainy photo.

He tilts his head, “What’s wrong?”

Britain lifts a finger with a horrified look, and even that was enough for waves of pain to travel in his whole body. “N-Netherlands, y-your face—”

Netherlands — or whoever he may be — lets out a laugh. “Britain, have you seen _your_ face?”

His blood runs cold. “What do you mean?”

Netherlands shrugs, and, in a _concerningly_ distorted voice, he says, “Look in the mirror, _stommerik_.”

“M-mirror? What mirror—”

The pain in his body is gone, but it was replaced by something else.

Horror.

He stares at his reflection, where a mirror had never been there in the first place.

Dark veins were spreading from his right eye socket; where his right eye should have been.

He screams in horror as these dark veins come to life, and, like snakes coiling around their prey, the veins strangle him, and he wretches for air.

His remaining eye went grey in a matter of seconds.

It was the last thing he ever saw before he was enveloped in darkness.

* * *

“Those dreams are taking a huge toll on you”, France says, making him coffee. “And yet you refuse to tell me in a coherent way.”

“Because I don’t know why my dreams are turning into nightmares recently”, Britain replies, his fingers unconsciously drumming on the table. “They’re all so… _fear-inducing_.”

“Then tell me about them if they’re all so plague-inducing.” She takes a seat beside him, planting a kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t think I even remember _most_ of the details.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, deep in thought.

“Then tell me what you _remember_.”

He sighs; he knows he cannot just ignore her when she asks for something. “Well, I woke up in a hospital, but here’s the thing: the hospital was full of wounded soldiers.”

She widens her eyes slightly, “More soldiers again?”

“For some reason my dreams as of now are fixated on soldiers.”

“Go on.”

“I _am_ going on, woman!” He lets out a deep breath before continuing. “I do not remember much of what happened next, but I felt like I had damn arthritis.”

She chuckles, “Well, you _are_ old.”

“I am not old!” He says, offended. “I’m just out of practice, is all!”

“I love seeing you like that; indignant yet passionate.” She kisses him again, and his heart skips a beat.

He likes her a lot; liked the way she smiles and looks at him, as if he was the only person in the world.

He wants to preserve that forever.

“Back to the story, I heard a familiar voice calling my name out in Dutch.”

She blinks, “Netherlands?”

He scratches his head, averting his gaze. “I don’t remember, but when I saw him, I got chills.”

“Why? He’s your friend.”

“Yes but… perhaps he looked horribly disfigured in my dream? I don’t remember.”

Unexpectedly enough, France holds his hand. His heart skips two beats at once, time stopping, and all he sees is red. She was holding his hand, and it felt like heaven. “It’s alright, at least you can remember a few details about it.”

His mouth twitches, “Yes, it was rather lucky of me.”

“Well, what happened after you were repulsed by the Netherlands’ appearance?”

“Don’t put it that way, France.”

She smiles; oh how he loved her smile. “I just want to see you feel better, that’s all.”

He chuckles, sifting his fingers through her hair. “You are so considerate.”

“Hey, don’t get chummy with me— you have a dream to share!”

“Alright, alright”, he continues, his hands still in her hair, “so I think Netherlands told me to look in the mirror, and—”

An image of his right eye socket oozing out dark veins interrupts him.

France seems to feel the mood shift. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, snapping out of it. “N-nothing, dear, just a gruesome reminder of that dream.”

“Well, what happened?”

“I was… covered with dark veins that seem to have come from my right eye socket.” Even describing that experience makes him shiver.

“Your right eye socket?”

He nods, and he feels his head ache when he keeps thinking about it. “Yes; I woke up because those veins started strangling me.”

“They must not be dark veins then”, France says, thinking. “They must be snakes.”

“Perhaps you’re right; but why on earth would my dreams include _dead_ or wounded soldiers? Is there a pattern?”

“Did you lose a war or something?”

He looks taken aback. “No! How dare you assume that I would lose a—”

“Cool down, _mon amour_ ”, she says, rubbing his arms together. “I just meant it figuratively.”

He rolls his eyes, “Sure you did.”

“But what have you been thinking of about the dreams you’re having?” she asks, “What was the conclusion you decided on while you were deep in thought?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes clouded with thoughts. “I believe… that my dreams recently are trying to warn me of something.”

“Warn you of what?”

“I’m not certain, but my bet is my dreams are warning me of the future.” He looks at her with those multi-coloured eyes. “Our subconscious thinks that there’s something bad that’s going to happen in the near future.”

“But _what_ is going to happen?”

His eyes look ahead, all clear. “I don’t know, but it’d be something _dire_ , if even _my dreams_ feel like there is a bad omen.” He looks up at the sky being painted by the windows.

“There’s a storm brewing.”

* * *

“You’re planning on _annexing_ Czechoslovakia?” Britain says, clenching his fist and gritting his teeth, staring at the Third Reich with bewilderment. “Why on earth would you do that?”

As always, that evil man smirks, “I did not say I want to annex the entirety of Czechoslovakia.”

France looks at him with suspicion. “Then what could you possibly want?”

He sighs, “I simply want the Sudeten territory— most ethnic Germans live there, _suffering under the Czechs_.”

“Why do you want that territory in particular?” Britain asks, playing with his words; he is sure that there is ought to be a trick here.

Rather than the Third Reich answering for himself, it was Italy — that rat — snorting, “Didn’t he already tell you?”

France turns to glare at him, “He wasn’t asking you.”

He averts his gaze, “Just helping my friend.”

“It’s okay, _mein Freund_ ; no need to help me win this useless argument”, he says, confidently standing. “I am a patient man, and I will wait for your answer.”

“Why do you want the Sudeten territory?” Britain repeats his question.

“To possess all of those Aryans living, _suffering_ underneath the Czechoslovak government.” He sighs dramatically, as if he is emphasising his point. “They must have missed being united under one banner, to serve under their _own_ country.”

“I don’t know where you got the assumption that they miss _you_ , but we’re still not giving you the territory.” France mutters.

The Third Reich glares at her. “I heard that.”

She scoffs. “Good.”

Britain reaches a hand to calm his lady down. “France, sweetheart, I know you’re upset, but you can’t insult the Third Reich during a professional meeting.”

“No, let her”, Third Reich says smugly, “I’d like to prove her wrong.”

She scoffs, “I’m always right.”

“Let’s not get comfortable with directly insulting each other, folks”, Britain attempts to mediate the situation, “so, Third Reich, you _only want_ the Sudeten territory that belongs to Czechoslovakia?”

“The territory belongs to the _Germans_ , and I will take it rightfully so”, he corrects smugly.

“The territory is within the borders of Czechoslovakia so it _belongs_ to Czechoslovakia”, France replies snidely.

“The Sudeten territory is full of Aryans so it rightfully belongs to _me_.”

France crosses her arms, her disdain for the German family showing. “We haven’t decided whether or not you’ll gain that territory, so don’t get cocky.”

“France…” Britain warns, trying to calm her down.

She ignores his pleas, “I don’t think we _should_ give you the territory; you’re too power-hungry, imagine how your ego would react just from gaining the territory you want to gain.”

“France—” Britain tries to cut in but the Third Reich does not hold back.

“Oh _Frankreich_ , don’t be a hypocrite”, he argues back, “you currently have Indochina in your hands; why are you holding me back from gaining something I want?”

Britain turns to him, “Third Reich—”

“We all know what you’re just going to annex the entirety of Czechoslovakia in the process!”

“You do not have proof I would do such a terrible thing.”

“Oh please, I see it in your eyes; the lust for gaining more _power_.”

“You have those in your eyes too, don’t play innocent.”

“France, Third Reich, please—”

“I’m simply wary you’ll take advantage of our kindness!”

“Which I won’t.”

At this point, Italy was now just watching the argument turn into a petty fight with interest.

“France, Third Reich, calm down!” Britain says, getting tired of the fact that they are not paying attention to _him_. The two stop arguing to look at him, and Italy sighs. He takes a deep breath to measure himself, “I’ve already decided what to do.”

The three present in this room look at him expectantly, all with their own expected answers in their eyes.

He opens his mouth, readying his answer—

But he stays silent.

France looks at him expectantly. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

Britain blinks. “Ah yes, the verdict. The verdict is—”

He goes silent once again, like he was buffering, stalling for time.

Third Reich tilts his head, “Is he… _broken_?”

France sighs exhaustedly. “I think the brothers are having an argument in their heads.”

And she was right; they were.

_“France doesn’t_ want _the Third Reich to gain the Sudeten territory!” England says, holding Scotland up by the collar. “What were you thinking?!”_

_Scotland sighs, “I trust the man, no matter how wary we are of him.”_

_“Why would you trust him over the woman we love?!”_

_“_ You _love France”, Wales corrects him. “We only see her as a friend.”_

_Scotland breaks free from England’s grip, “Giving the Third Reich the Sudeten territory will solve political turmoil.”_

_“No it won’t!” England hisses, “France will hate us!”_

_“She’ll understand why we have to do it”, Wales replies, “Third Reich is right; we all claimed territories in Africa, Oceania, the Americas, even Asia_ — _why are we trying to stop Third when all he wants is the land where most Germans live?”_

_England sighs, defeated, gritting his teeth. “If France hates me after this, I swear I will blame this all on you.”_

_Scotland grunts. “I couldn’t care less if France’s appeal for us decreases, when you’re not even making an effort on trying to keep your relationship with her lit.”_

Your relationship.

_England grits his teeth, facing forward. “Fine, the unanimous decision it is.”_

_“Don’t chicken out again”, Scotland sermons, “you made us look like an idiot for a few minutes in front of your girlfriend, your sort of rival, and that rat.”_

_“I know, I know!”_

Italy furrows his brows, “Is… Britain broken?”

Third Reich snickers, “I think so.”

“Hey, he is being faced with a tough decision”, France defends him, “they all need the time to think about their answer clearly.” She pauses for a moment before continuing, “Which is to keep the Sudeten territory with Czechoslovakia.”

“What makes you believe that keeping the Sudeten territory in Czechoslovakia is what he’ll be about to answer?” Third asks, raising a brow.

“Because we can read each other's minds!” she replies with a huff, “it’s one of true love’s powers!”

He chuckles, amused. “All right, I’ll give you a benefit of doubt, then.”

“ _We_ have decided”, the sound of Britain’s voice makes the three of them jump in surprise, “that the Sudeten territory will…”

“Will remain with Czechoslovakia! Of course!” France chuckles. “I knew that you can make well thought-out decisions!”

“We have all decided to give the Sudeten territory to the Third Reich.”

A silence penetrates the room, taking all of its occupants by shock.

France stares at Britain like he had grown two heads.

Italy conceals his snort with a yawn.

Third Reich doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

Britain inwardly cringes at the sight of France’s face, but he continues, staring at the Third Reich with a casual expression on his face. “I trust that you will handle the Sudeten territory dispute carefully.”

He nods, trying to hide his excitement. “Of course, I am grateful for your kindness, Britain.”

“Do you promise that you will only take Sudeten and not Czechoslovakia as a whole?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you have _our_ permission to take the Sudeten territory.” He stands and forwards his hand, expecting the Third Reich to shake it.

He ignores the glare France was giving him.

Third Reich stands, shaking his hand; he was slightly surprised at how strong and firm his hands were, how rough and calloused his palms were too, and how his bony fingers have an ounce of strength in them as well. “ _Ich werde für immer dankbar sein_.”

He then tightens his grip, glaring at the Third Reich, “But if you violate these terms and the agreements, we _will_ have a hard time, and you _will_ face the consequences.”

Instead of nervously sweating or getting anxious from the threat he had made, the man smiles mysteriously, “Of course I will not break our agreement; you have my word.”

Britain’s grip on the Third Reich’s hand slightly becomes weaker.

After a few seconds, they stop shaking hands— much to Britain’s relief.

“Well, this meeting is done.”

France was the only person who wasn’t happy by the decision, sulking as Britain made small talk with the Reich and Italy.

* * *

France spent the rest of the day sulking and giving Britain the silent treatment. At first Britain acts like he has done nothing wrong — he has done _everything_ wrong — but the silent treatment became colder and more apparent as they drove home with silence as a barrier, when they came back home with the quietness acting like a bodyguard, and now when France was making dinner, the cold settling in the room and becoming more and more prominent.

Frankly, Britain misses those sweet words France would whisper in his ear, the soft kisses she would give him, the way her eyes sparkle, and everything else about her already.

He sighs, giving up with playing the same charade as his love. “Alright France, open up.”

“Why should I?” she hmphs, not even glancing at his direction, fixated on what she was cooking.

“Because you look like you’re upset.”

“Wow, it took you long enough to notice.”

Britain sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You won’t accomplish anything if you just keep your mouth shut.”

“Maybe I want to keep my mouth shut.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, _you_ were being ridiculous!” She finally looks at him, her eyes shining with ferocity. “What were you thinking?!”

“I was considering peace!” Britain bites back. “And even if I am wary of the Third Reich, he seems like the type of man who never breaks his promises.”

“He is _not_ a noble man!”

“How should you know?”

“I can see it in his eyes; they’re swirling with hunger!”

He sighs. “France, _all_ of our eyes hide the want for more power with them, if I must admit.”

“The Third Reich is controlling you.”

“He is not; the only person controlling me is _me_.”

(They are a fusion— they work in ways that others cannot describe.

Neither does its occupants know _how_ fusions work either.)

“Why are you trying to appease him then?”

“I want another chance at peace— I feel like we are entering another war, and I wish to stop it.”

“You won’t have another chance at peace if you keep giving enemies land!”

“Who said he was an enemy?”

“ _Me_!”

“I don’t see him as one, you’re just being hysterical, my love.”

“I am _not_ being hysterical!” She says in a shrill voice, hitting the pan on the stove.

“Is it that time of month?”

France narrows her eyes, and Britain shuts his mouth— he’s gone too far.

_“You incompetent fool!” England shouts at Scotland. “Now France is surely going to break up with me!”_

_“Settle down, brother”, Scotland tells him, “she’s just exaggerating because she didn’t get what she wanted.”_

_“We should’ve denied the Third Reich’s request!” England wails. “Now I’m going to lose the love of my life_ ! _”_

“Fine!” She hmphs, “You don’t take me seriously, so I’ll just take my leave. Have fun cooking for yourself!”

She turns the stove off, and without a word, takes her coat and exits their home.

Britain puts his head on his hands.

_England glares at his siblings, “I hate all of you.”_

_Scotland shrugs, “At least you have the chance to make an effort on your relationship.”_

* * *

“Having trouble with your lady?” Netherlands snickers as he lights up another cigarette and puts the stick on his mouth.

Britain scowls at him. “How would you know?”

He shrugs, “France isn’t clinging to your arms today.”

“Are we that obvious?”

“Given the fact that you two are sickeningly affectionate, it ain’t hard to tell whether you hit a bump in your relationship.” He lights up another one, before giving it to Britain. “Want one?”

Britain stares at the cigarette before sighing, taking it from him and taking a puff out of it. “She didn’t approve of my decision for the Third Reich to take the Sudeten territory from Czechoslovakia.”

“I mean, the Third Reich just _annexed_ Austria last March, so of course she and the others would be wary.” He lets out a puff of smoke. “You’re basically just betraying Czechoslovakia’s free will.”

He sighs, “This is all to maintain peace.”

Netherlands perks up, “‘Peace’? Look all ‘round you Britain, we are not at peace— not anymore. Spain’s last sons started a civil war and got turned to a dictatorship, the Weimar Republic fell and made way for the Third Reich, Italy turned to a fascist regime and then sided with the Third Reich, the stock market crash happened, and you _still_ believe that we are in peace?”

The fusion takes a while to answer. “Peace is an option, but an option that I will strive for.”

“I have to make a confession: I am wary of what the Third Reich is about to do next.”

“Why would you be wary of a German? Specifically, someone we have already defeated once?”

His friend looks uncertain. “I don’t know if we can beat this man; he is not Weimar, and he will never be what Weimar had been.”

He scoffs, “That’s an absurd claim! He even confessed that he was _once_ Weimar!”

Netherlands looks at him darkly, “But he isn’t anymore.”

“You are overreacting!”

Netherlands disposes of his cigarette on the floor. “If you are denying or are oblivious to the obvious catalysts of a war, then perhaps you are being dethroned by your own self.”

He walks away, not even looking back.

A gust of cold wind makes Britain shiver.

Something’s wrong with the winds today.

* * *

Great Britain is battling a terrible headache today.

“Germany invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia.”

His headache grows, scowling at London. “What?”

“The Third Reich invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia.” London repeats in a panicked tone.

His headache explodes.

“ _Excuse me_ ”, he snarls, extremely grumpy because of his headache today, “ _what_?”

“Today, he invaded the rest of Czechoslovakia”, London babbles incoherently, “he _broke_ the Munich Agreement— he broke it.”

Britain takes a deep breath. “Call the other Europeans to the League of Nations building to discuss this.” He glares at the city. “Yes, even the Third Reich must come to this meeting to answer my questions.”

“O-of course, sir.” London runs out of the room, leaving Britain with his headache and his internal thoughts.

And unsurprisingly, these thoughts were in a discourse.

_Fuck_.

 _This is bad_.

 _Worse than bad, the most horrible thing to have ever happened_.

 _He broke the agreement_.

 _I saw it coming from a mile away_.

 _France was right; he was not supposed to be trusted_.

 _England, what do we do_?

There was a silence.

_… I don’t know_.

 _What do you mean you don’t know_?!

 _Look, this wasn’t my idea, okay_?!

 _You agreed with us when we decided we should give the Third Reich a chance_!

 _Let’s just…_ England takes a deep breath. _Pretend it never happened_ — _we are good at that_.

 _Pretend it never happened? Pretend that_ Czechoslovakia was annexed by Germany _never happened_?!

 _Of course! What do you want me to do_?!

 _Oh I don’t know,_ do _something about it_?!

 _What’s done is done_ ! _We don’t need another war to rack the world_.

Britain looks up, his multi-coloured eyes gleaming.

“We don’t need another war to bring the world to its knees.” He whispers to no one in particular.

  
  


“I told you so!” France gloated to Britain as soon as the meeting ended. “I told you he’d be breaking his promises left and right!”

He sighs— the meeting did not go as planned, all thanks to the Third Reich. He was so smug about his victory, unrepentant of the consequences of his actions, and actually intimidated almost everyone in the meeting room (save for himself and France, of course; they are masters of intimidation). “Yes, gloat all you want, France, you were right.”

Her eyes light up. “Can I relish in this victory?”

He said that sarcastically, but he knows he can’t and won’t stop France from gloating. “Yes.”

She chuckles, hitting his shoulder playfully. “I was right and you were wrong; so wrong in so many ways!”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, superbly wrong.”

“You do our laundry for a week!”

He rolls his eyes, “You’re gloating over an inference gone right yet this entire situation is serious.”

She shrugs, “You’re just being sallow because I was right!”

“Do I look like a corpse to you?” He asks, as he and his lady love clamber on his automobile.

“Well, you look better than the Third Reich”, she responds before kissing him on the lips, his heart once again racing to the finish line. “But you’re _still_ as handsome as ever.”

He holds her tight as she continues to kiss every part of him.

He didn’t start the engine until the sun had set.

* * *

Soviet is seated across the Third Reich, cigarette in hand. “So… you want to sign a pact with me?”

The man in front of him attempts to brush away his concern for the abomination the Soviet Union was holding, a derisive smirk on his face. “Not just any kind of pact, but a _non-aggression_ pact.”

The Russian man raises a brow, tiredly letting out a puff of smoke. “I’m interested.”

His left eye twitches; he was so used to being the King of the chess game called life, used to play with the lives of his pawns. But Soviet’s naturally intimidating and nonchalant nature is putting him on the edge of his seat. He has to act smart, not just talk the big talk and talk about his ambitions like they were the only thing that made him himself.

He _hates_ this man; once he is done with exterminating the Jews, the Slavs are next, until there is nothing left but the Aryans.

After all, he’d break the pact once he found himself winning; he only wanted the Soviet Union to agree with him so that he could be unmatched with his conquest throughout Europe.

He only needed this to invade Poland.

“We are both powerful nations, _mein Freund_ ”, he says carefully— he decides that being tremendously careful was making him impatient, already wishing for bloodlust. “And we both know what we want.”

“Oh? You truly know what I want?”

He smirks. “Of course; you want total control of Eastern Europe unmatched. _I_ wish to control Europe unmatched. Together, we can create—”

“Europe is in the brink of another war”, he interrupts him, and he bites back a snarl; he _abhors_ getting interrupted, as he is reminded of that pushover Weimar. His gold eyes meet the Third Reich’s green ones. “And my troops are still a _klaster nakhren_.”

He does not know what he just said in that inferior language of his, but he assumes it was not a very flattering language. “Yes, I’ve heard the rumours of another war — after the Great War, mind you — surfacing; it is actually very concerning, if you ask me.”

Soviet takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “Let me be clear with you: I do _not_ like you.”

His lips curl, holding back a scowl. “Neither do I, but I have no choice for this.”

He lifts up a finger. “But I do not want to be involved in any sort of trouble with you, and I need more time to train my troops for this war.” He grunts, averting his gaze. “And yes, I _do_ want Eastern Europe.”

The Third Reich’s smile restores itself upon his face. _Perfect_. “Well, now you must like the conditions I will provide for you once we fully agree to this pact.”

“Spit it out; I haven’t got all day.”

 _He is really making me reach my limit_. “Once we sign this pact, we can divide our respective halves of Eastern Europe to our own liking.”

He perks up, “I’m interested.”

Third Reich leans back on his chair, a snake slithering in on its prey. “We can divide half of Eastern Europe with this pact, and we can… _invade half of_ Poland with our combined efforts.”

Soviet strokes his beard. “I am… considering that.”

“Are you moved enough to sign the non-aggression pact? I will be patient and wait for your answer, if you may.”

He stands, taking a puff of his cigarette. “I wish to sign the pact.”

Third Reich smirks—

“Not because I believe we can be good allies”, he interrupts; he really does pick the worst times to interfere, either for dramatics or pure cluelessness. His gold eyes narrow with suspicion. “I am simply biding my time until you break this pact.”

He stares at him for a while, before laughing. “Oh, Soviet, what do you take me for?”

Soviet looms over him in his full size, looking at him in disdain. The Third Reich almost averts his gaze from his menacing glare, but that would mean he submits to him.

He is _not_ submitting himself to a Slav.

“You are a breaker of promises, and I will _not_ fall prey to your games.”

“What games?”

“You are an untrustworthy individual, and everything about you is suspicious.”

“I would _never_ betray you.”

He scoffs, “Prove me wrong.”

“So I shall.”

They both sign the non-aggression pact.

Let the games begin.

 _Prove me wrong_.

 _Prove me right_.

* * *

“ _Bretagne, mon amour_ ”, France says dramatically, leaning on the couch that he was sitting on as she rests her hands from writing her manuscript. She looked as dashing as ever, but her eyes hid a lingering worry behind them. “Soviet and Reich… they made a nonaggression pact with each other.”

“Ah.” He pulls out the teabag from his cup of tea, assuming it was already sweet enough for its consumption. “This is… a surprising turn of events.”

“I didn’t think the Soviet Union and the Third Reich would get together, but here we are.” She sighs. “The real world is full of disappointments and surprises.”

“Which of these was the pact signing, then?”

“... It was a surprise.” She turns to look at him. “Are you alright? You look quite disoriented this morning.”

“I’m alright.” He pauses before continuing. “I just had another dream that is full of bollocks.”

“Mind telling me about it?”

“It started out like my dreams since last year”, he mutters, his eyes on the dark brown colour of the tea. “All full of soldiers— every day and night.”

Her face becomes even more worried.

He sighs, putting his hands to his face. “I’m sick of this.” He clenches his fist and hits the table, the undisturbed liquid in the cup spilling on the table. France jumps at his sudden outburst.

“ _Bretagne, calme-toi_.” She rubs her hands on his shoulders, trying to calm him down. “Tell me what you remembered happened in that dream.”

He frowns, trying his damndest to remember. “I was in a clearing, with some soldiers— then we heard a wolf howling, and when I looked up, it had been the middle of the night, a full moon.” He takes a deep breath. “I volunteered to investigate the noise because — as you may know — I fear no man.”

She smirks, “You fear one woman, though.” She pecks him on the cheek again, and this time he smiles.

However, that smile does not last forever. “As I venture deep in the woods, the howls got louder and louder; I had ventured into a cave.”

“Go on.”

“But there was _light_ on the other side of that cave”, he continues, “so I followed it. It took me days, weeks, or perhaps even months to walk to the end; even when I was quite parched, I managed to reach the end.” His fingers dig deep to his skin and his face scrunches in discomfort.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know”, he replies with barely a whisper, shaken to the core. “I don’t know what happened.”

“ _Bretagne_ , your breathing—” She reaches a hand out to him.

“I’m fine”, he snaps, clutching at his chest. “Fine, fine, very fine.”

“You’re not fine, and it’s okay if you don’t finish the dream—”

“This is the _thirtieth time_ I’ve seen my _dead body_ in front of me!” He bellows loudly, causing France to stand back. He clutches his hair, screaming obscenities to the winds. “I’m sick of it! Sick of these dreams plaguing my mind, sick of trying to maintain peace and prosperity throughout Europe, sick of the rumours of a brewing war, sick of _everything_!”

“I do not know what my dreams are giving me warnings of, but I want it to stop, to vanish! I just want peace and quiet, why can’t I have those in my dreams as well?”

France tries to reach a hand out, but he slaps it away, taking her by surprise.

He stands, acknowledging France coldly. “Abbysinia tomorrow.”

Without even looking back, he takes his coat and leaves his place, leaving France alone.

In the moonlight, he meets with a prostitute that was willing to give herself to him.

* * *

**NAZIS INVADE POLAND FROM THE WEST; SOVIETS TO THE EAST**

Great Britain glares at the newspaper prints with an indescribable fury in his eyes. Inside of the fusion, three souls were in a heated debate on what kind of punishment the Third Reich deserved for failing to comply with the Treaty of Versailles. He clutches the newspaper so hard, that the fragile sheets of paper crumple and tear just easily. Because paper is like that; valuable but so easy to rip it apart, like everything was their weak spot.

He can feel the eyes of everyone on him, even France, who was just as furious as he is.

“That man”, she mutters angrily, “I can’t believe it.”

The others shake their head, muttering and talking about Poland’s downfall.

“He was split in half, rumors say”, Hungary replies, barely a whisper. “I didn’t help enough; if only I stopped the Third Reich.”

“Then you’d be powerless against the Soviet Union”, Belgium replies, snapping his head in his direction. As a neighboring country to a concerning power, he is becoming alert, preparing himself for the real war. He clenches his fist, his whole body trembling, lips shaking. “God, I don’t think I’m prepared for another war.”

Luxembourg pats him on the shoulder. “We’ll help each other overcome this fear.”

“But this fear is _real_ ”, Switzerland says, shaking her head. “Who knows what will happen? The Third Reich already has enough territory— Austria, Czechoslovakia, half of Poland. And with him hypothetically working with the Soviet Union, they will be even harder to tear down.”

Netherlands puts his head in his hands. “We are not safe near the Third Reich.”

Most of the countries present mutter their fears and aggressions towards that damned Reich, unintentionally making Britain even angrier.

He bangs on the table to get everyone’s attention, and he stands to assert authority.

“Are you all just admitting defeat?” He demands, the power of his voice reverberating across the walls. “Because he is imposing a threat on all of us? Because he took three countries down?”

A silence in the midst.

 _Good_ , _keep talking_.

“So we’re just going to give up our dignity, hm?”

“Our dignity is on the line as well if we fight and get humiliated by the bastard”, Belgium replies, exhaling. “I think leading him on will be a bad idea in all of our parts.”

“Our dignity has already been decided by fate; and our dignity has been destroyed.” He glares at every single person in this room. “Our dignity is no more, because we failed to protect Poland, who we promised military support if he were put in a dire situation. And now, we are too late.”

He stands on top of a table; it counts as overreacting to many, but he simply does not care anymore. “So before the Third Reich gets his hands dirty with you all, perhaps _I_ will be able to stop him.”

France stands, “I promised my dear friend Poland military support as well, and I take full responsibility for stopping Third Reich’s conquests.”

She smiles at Britain.

Britain smiles back.

They both know what to do.

* * *

**UNITED KINGDOM AND FRANCE DECLARE WAR ON NAZI GERMANY**

“Ha!” Third Reich laughs to himself, reading the news prints. “They’re hellbent on stopping me now, hm?”

 _I don’t see why they aren’t_. To his dismay, Weimar is back again.

(Is this what he had felt like when he had been a mere voice in his head? Pure annoyance?)

“Weimar, I’m so glad you’re back”, he says contemptuously. “Britain and France just declared war on me.”

 _Yes, I know_ , he snarks back matter-of-factly; it was _annoying_ . _That’s the reason why you were laughing in the first place_.

“Well, do you want to know the other reason _why_ I was laughing?”

 _No_.

He raises a brow, tilting his head. “Come on, I know that there’s a curious cell in there somewhere.”

 _Why were you laughing_? It seems that even Weimar has a chest full of sardonic responses.

“Why, because they’re all _fools_ ”, he spits at the last word, gritting his teeth. “I can see it in their eyes; they think they’re going to win this war.” He chuckles madly. “Oh no, they’re _not_.”

 _How would you know_?

“My my, Weimar, you’ve known them since you were born and you still don’t know what their weaknesses are?”

 _Pride_.

He closes his mouth for a second, before smirking. “Don’t be so sardonic with me, Weimar, we both know who is in control.”

 _That’s why I’m fighting for control_ ! Weimar shrieks, making Third Reich’s head pound. _I’ve been trying to gain control of you ever since you decided to lock my son up in an asylum_!

“It was for his own good, and for my own image as well”, he snaps, “besides, _my_ Ost is doing well without her mentally deranged brother.” He emphasizes his claim to Weimar’s daughter just to rile him up, and it does.

 _SHE IS NOT YOUR DAUGHTER_ . There was a slight pain in his head; he regretted doing that already. _SHE IS MINE, AND YOU TOOK HER AWAY FROM ME_!

“Did I?” he says it so innocently, “Whose fault was it that you let me get into your head?”

 _You fed me with lies,_ deceit! _You didn’t care about me, all you cared about is seeking vengeance on those who have wronged you_!

“Didn’t you say you want revenge?”

 _I did, but my love towards my children outweighs my desire for revenge_.

“But it was always there, right?”

 _Yes, but_ —

“And everyday, you get taunted and mocked by the winners of the Great War, correct?”

 _Yes_ —

“And you’ll go home and drink yourself to death because of the collapsing economy, your impending debt, and revenge fantasies on those who wronged you, precisely?”

A pause.

 _… What are you getting at, exactly_?

Third Reich stops at a mirror, his green eyes gleaming with realisation. “Now I know.”

 _Know… what_?

He studies himself in the mirror; straight blonde hair, emerald green eyes, equipped with a prim and proper uniform. “I’m _you_.”

 _What do you mean? You always reminded yourself_ — _unhelpfully_ — _that you are better and different than I had been_.

“That was when I was so blind to the truth; I am the embodiment of your revenge fantasies, fictional world where Aryans stay on top of the food chain, where you live with the passion of arts, where you were just… _yourself_. I am the embodiment of all your negative emotions; anger, fear, envy, longing, sadness… in the most twisted way possible.”

Weimar laughs, but it was awkward, slowly but surely considering an idea as ludicrous as that. _You’re insane_.

“ _No_ ”, he looks at his reflection in wonder, and he only sees the old Weimar, the worse Weimar. “ _You’re_ insane.”

 _You are_!

“I wouldn’t be here if you had not kept these emotions bottled up in the first place”, Third Reich laughs bitterly, “Oh Weimar, you are such a conflicting person to work with.”

 _You’re going to lose_.

“Oh no, Weimar, _ich werde gewinnen_.”

-

“ _Bretagne_ , haven’t we already declared war on the Third Reich today?” France asks, making her way to her lover, trying not to slip on the dozens of leaflets lying on the ground.

“Yes, we have declared war on him”, he replies, his eyes fixated on the printing machine as it prints out a whole lot more leaflets. “But my instincts wish to make peace with him.”

France stares at him, dumbfounded. “What?”

“There is still a chance for peace!” He gives her one of the leaflets she had printed; she finally noticed the dark circles underneath his eyes, a sign of sleep deprivation. “I printed these leaflets for Germany; we can try and dissuade the Third Reich — or the populace — to continue the prospect of war!”

She looks hesitant, her eyes flitting left and right. “Er, I don’t know, Britain—”

He shakes her by the shoulders, beaming like a madman, “He _has_ to back out of the war, and if he does, peace will be restored!”

She softly slaps away his hands from her shoulders. “Is this the reason why you vanished into the night after we declared war?”

He nods— a little too eagerly for France’s taste. “Yes.”

She slowly nods, her mouth slightly agape. “... I think you need to get some sleep first.”

“Before I do that— _LONDON_!” He shouts for the city’s name, causing France’s ears to ring due to how caught off guard she was.

London runs in a few moments later. “You want to see me, Britain?”

“Bring all of these piles of leaflets into the planes and take them off to Germany while I catch some z’s.” He yawns, slumping on France.

“Of course, sir.”

  
  


The Third Reich wakes to a rain of leaflets this morning.

“ _Was zur Hölle...?_ ” He asks himself, having finished his breakfast when the sky started raining leaflets. He puts on his coat and trudges outside.

He frowns, _Did I overdose on cocaine again_?

He picks up one of the leaflets that had so gracefully fallen out of the sky. It felt like paper; so what he thought he was dreaming about had actually been real. He looks back at the sunny skies, and sees a plane — which looked unmistakable British — zooming past them, dropping more and more leaflets to the ground.

He narrows his eyes; what did Britain _do_?

He stares at the leaflet in his hand, crinkling from underneath his fingers. He skims the fine-printed words on the pamphlet, expecting a warning, taunts, insults—

The Third Reich snorts as he silently reads the pamphlet, again and again.

He stares back at the British plane, still handing out pamphlets of peace; if only he could shoot at an airborne machine from below.

He waved his pamphlet in the air, snorting and smiling. “Do you _think_ that war will be solved by a simple pamphlet trying to dissuade everyone to take action against the art of war? _Do you_ ?” He laughs again, holding his hair, before growing serious. “I will _never_ hold back against you, Britain, _never_!”

Baring his teeth, he tears the pamphlet with his hands, before stomping on its remains.

“Are you still trying to bring peace as an option, even when I have invaded Poland, even after you and your lady friend declared war on _me_ ?” He laughs once again. “Peace was _never_ an option, Britain! Not anymore!”

His eyes were still on the plane. “One day, _one day_ Britain, _you_ will be on your knees, begging _me_ for mercy!” He laughs maniacally, emerald eyes gleaming with malicious intent.

“And once I remove your soul, you _will_ serve me.”

(After all, it’s almost been a decade since he ordered his scientists to create the deadliest weapon to the fusions, and it would be a waste when it goes unused.)

  
  


He barges in the scientists’ building, and everyone’s heads turn to him with surprised expressions.

Due to how angry and appalled he had been at Britain’s attempt to stop the war before it started, he must have looked like a feral animal just barging in an intellectuals’ abode. He clears his throat and calms himself down. “Pardon me, but I need to speak with your lead scientist.”

One of the men was pushed forward from the crowd, becoming the center of attention. “Y-you wish to speak with me, _mein Führer_?”

He absorbs the fear in his voice, turning his anger into a pleasure. “Do you remember that weapon I assigned to you all to complete during the time of a war?”

“Y-yes, of course!”

He stares at him dangerously. “Did you _finish_ it?”

“Yes!” He squeaks in fear, before calming down. “ _Ja, mein Führer_.”

“May I see it?” He opens his palms, fully expecting the weapon that will bring forth victory against Britain, once and for all.

He feels a certain chill enter his systems once the lead scientist puts the weapon in his open hand. He stares at it, an unravelling fascination becoming visible in his eyes.

It was silver in colour, glinting in the light, its scabbard able to blind anyone.

It had the name ‘ _Deutschland_ ’ written on the scabbard.

He takes it out of the hilt, already fascinated.

The dagger’s blade was comparable to a crystal— full of jagged lines, transparent, and had the characteristics of glass. It had a kaleidoscope of colours like a prism, full of vibrance and life. The blade of it felt a little thicker than most blades that he had used, as if it was a straw that is able to suck out the contents of whatever it is attached in.

But there was something else— the transparent symbols of the Seven Continents, etched into the dagger. 

The scientist looks at him with awe, “Do you like it, _mein Führer_?”

He stares at him with an underlying fascination. “I do.”

“Do you want us to show you how to use it?”

He scoffs, “Are you suggesting I cannot navigate my own way to understanding my own weapon?”

He shrinks back, “Ah, I am sorry for challenging you, _mein Führer_.”

The Third Reich sighs, “I do not need your coddling, understand?”

“ _Ich entschuldige mich, mein Führer_.”

“Good. I’ll best be going now, but I do hope you are on your proper behaviour.”

“ _Ja, mein Führer_.” They all speak in unison.

He loved how coordinated and disciplined they were.

* * *

Declaring war on a country was supposed to be thrilling— Britain will finally be able to show the Third Reich what he has left to lose.

Instead, for the first few months after they declared war on Germany, absolutely _nothing_ has happened.

There was no thrill; it was replaced with the ever-lasting presence of boredom.

But this radio silence just made him even more worried or doubtful.

Countless thoughts were surrounding him and his mind, everyday and all day.

_When is the Third Reich going to attack_?

 _Should we attack first, then_?

 _Then we’ll look like the aggressors_!

 _He isn’t doing anything, so maybe we’re safe_?

 _No, what if he’s just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike_?

 _He’s planning something, I can feel it_.

 _But what could he be planning_?

His thought process breaks for a moment once someone hands him coffee. On a better note, the person who handed him coffee was none other than France herself.

She smiles pleasantly, “Have a cup of coffee; you didn’t sleep well last night.”

Britain smiles at her, taking the cup from the table. “Your kindness is greatly appreciated, my love.”

She chuckles, “I just want you to stop looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He gingerly touches her cheek. “I just want to make sure we’re all prepared for the war. It’s… waiting for us.”

She frowns, holding the hand touching her cheek. “God hates us.”

“He doesn’t, but I am sure he is testing us.”

“Why would he send such an awful man to rain down on our parades?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, savouring the bitter taste. “To laugh at our struggles, I assume.”

She leans on the window sill, holding her cup of coffee. “Anyways, I’m already at the third revision for my new upcoming book.”

Britain looks up at her. “Congrats, France— I know that it is going to be an upcoming hit.”

She smirks. “It is to show those men that women can write something else that is not sweet.” She takes another sip of coffee. “The antagonist is based off of the Third Reich, by the way.”

He sighs, “Your bias against the Germans is showing again.”

“I thought it’s always been there.”

“France.”

“It had been growing larger ever since he annexed Czechoslovakia.”

He sighs, “You are one snarky lady.”

“Funny, I get that a lot.” She smirks. “Mostly from you.”

He kisses her hand. “Because it’s true.”

She leans on him, her hands on the armrest of his chair. “You seem out of it today.” She toys with his necktie before untying it. “Stressed.”

“Aren’t you stressed as well?” he asks, his multi-coloured eyes following the necktie being discarded and thrown to the floors. “Being neighbors with the literal force we are battling must always be difficult.”

“Why do you think I’m doing this?” She asks sweetly, barely a whisper, as she unbuttons his suit, letting it drop down to the floor like an incessant fly. His heart was beating faster, and all his blood rushes south—

“Do you think we’ll win against him?” He asks her, as she continues to strip him down, enjoying every moment her delicate fingers touch his skin, her soft skin colliding with his, her eyes looking down at him with complete and utter desire, her lips locked to a smirk.

“My love, are you saying I can’t handle Germany?” She unbuckles his belt, looking at him in the eye— it was obvious she’s just teasing him now. “I’ve danced with Weimar’s grandfather because he had the hots for me during the Franco-Prussian War, and I knocked him out with a single kick.”

“You never fail to flaunt your victories against men, France.”

She smiles, “Because women are always taught to be delicate, demure, _submissive_ to their husbands— but I’m not going to go down that path; never again.”

He sighs, “You’re just… _you_ , my love.” He smiles sincerely. “It is what made me drawn to you in the first place.”

She stares at him with surprise for a moment, before chuckling and smiling. “You’re so charming.”

Britain holds her hand tightly, staring deep into her eyes. “It’s a part of who I am, darling.”

They lock lips, once again entering an entanglement dance; fighting for dominance and the submission of the other, sharing warmth with their bodies. His fingers run through the strands of her hair, she holds him tightly as she settles on his lap, wanting this warmth to spread within her, to calm her nerves and suppress all the lingering doubt that is with the declaration of war against the Third Reich.

Like playing tunes on a string, all their thoughts about the ongoing war decrease as another melody dominates their bodies.

* * *

France takes a deep breath, “It is like the Third Reich has gone radio silent.”

“True.” Britain mutters, “At least you managed to capture the Saar territory.”

France, however, does not have the mood to celebrate her — hypothetical — victory. “I wonder what the Third Reich is hiding up under their sleeves.”

He stares at his lover, “You’re still thinking of him?”

She exhales, looking at him. “Of course; radio silence _must_ mean that he is planning something. Something big.”

He scoffs, “Oh please, the Third Reich will never be able to pass through the Maginot Line.”

“I fear the line will not hold out as long as we ought to think.”

“... I hate that you’re right.”

“I fear for my sons’ safety, even the Netherlands’. If I fail stopping the Third Reich… then I’ll fail everyone else too.”

Britain holds her hand. “I’m in the same situation as well; I failed to keep us in peace, and now we are paying the price.”

She buries her face in her hands. “Why must we be punished with having two wars in a row?”

“Maybe it was to teach us a lesson.”

“A lesson where we must be knocked down from our pedestals to truly grow?”

“Maybe that was the lesson we must learn during these hard times.”

France’s face hardens, her resolve finally coming back. She clenches her fist, jaw tightening. “We will win another war; the Germans lost the first one and got humiliated, and so the Third Reich wishes to continue the cycle of losing. No problem for him, I wish to knock him down a pedestal or two.”

Britain chuckles, burying his face in her hair. “We will prevail and defeat Germany.”

He unbuttons her uniform, as she falls to his embrace.

He had a dreamless night this time.

* * *

“Should we aid Finland?” France asks as she and Britain discuss and exchange the necessary battle plans. “The Soviet Union decided to just attack Finland during November.”

“The Soviet Union attacked a country that is _smaller_ than him?” Britain asks, before clicking his tongue. “I didn’t know that he had become desperate to the point he went on to assault a smaller country. He is already massive in size, what more can he want?”

“He just wants to gobble everything up, doesn’t he?” she says, examining her nails. “Wants himself to become bigger everyday.”

He sniggers, “Probably to hide his most shameful secrets underneath that looming landmass.”

“Like how he’s mediocre in bed?”

“Yes— wait how did you know that—”

She stops leaning on the wall, standing straight. “Are we going to just stand here or should we help Finland fight off the Soviets?”

“Of course I’ll help! I admire Fin’s bravery, like he is David in that old story.”

“Let’s not get carried away, shall we?”

“I am impressed by Finland’s defense”, Britain rattles on. “It seems particularly stable for someone to have been attacked by surprise.”

“Perhaps because Finland is a tactical man”, France points out, “a quiet and standoffish man, yet has the wisdom of warfare intact in his brain nonetheless.”

“The Soviet Union was booted from the League of Nations”, Britain says with a smile on his face.

“He deserved that for acting so high and mighty.” She huffs. “He doesn’t scare me one bit.”

“It’s his height”, he replies. “If we imagine that he is smaller than us, he’ll look like—”

“A scowling baby!” She snorts, throwing her head back. “Thanks a lot, I now have an image of Soviet scowling up at me like a baby!”

Britain’s lips quirk a little, but he tries not to laugh.

He wheezes, air being punched out of his lungs.

“And now you put that image in my mind!”

“You’re a jester!”

He elbows her softly. “You make me laugh every time.” He looks into her eyes, “But your laugh will make me sigh.”

She stopped laughing, but she still had the largest smile on her face. “Oh _Bretagne_ …”

“Oh, France...”

“We should help Finland.”

Britain snaps himself into reality. “Oh yes, of course. What do you propose?”

“We can always send an expedition to Finnish territory.”

“It’s a great idea, but we should make sure the Third Reich wouldn’t know.”

“To be honest… the Finns are holding the Soviets out well on their own.”

“I know, it is quite impressive.”

“... Do they still need our help?”

“Weren’t you the one who suggested this?”

“I don’t think we should; we still need soldiers to prepare for an all-out war with the Third Reich.”

“... Do women change their minds _that_ easily?”

She glares at him. “I’m just looking at this from a neutral point of view, you don’t need to ask if being indecisive is a womanly thing.”

“My bad.”

“The Finnish are taking the fight well”, France speculates, “perhaps they do not need help at all?”

“Do you need more air?”

“I’m _fine_.”

“Then why did you change your mind?”

“I don’t know… I think we need our own soldiers than Finland does; I mean, he’s doing quite well holding off a _literal_ giant.”

Britain stares at her, clutching a few maps, before sighing. “Your mind must be running in circles; I think you need rest.”

“I’m perfectly well-rested.”

“Your indecisiveness says you’re not.”

“I _am_!” She snaps, sighing. “Let’s talk about giving Finland our aid next time, alright?”

He breathes out, “All right.”

They never touch on the topic again.

* * *

“London you prick, slow down!” Britain hisses as London applies pressure to — one of — his wounds. It was like an ant had bitten him, but ten times more painful but also ten times less painful than a gunshot penetrating his skin.

“I can’t just slow down, you could’ve gotten killed!”

He scoffs, “You think that the Third Reich would kill me?”

“No, but you’ll _bleed_ to death if you’d stayed there longer!”

“I fear no man!” Britain says with a triumphant look. “And I most certainly do not fear the Third Reich— AH!” He once again hisses as London applies pressure on another wound. “You caught me by surprise, stop doing that!”

“You’re badly injured! How am I supposed to stop aiding you when you were the one who went headfirst into this war in the first place?”

“I had to do what I did!” He then had the decency to look _proud_ . “I saved those Allied prisoners from the Reich, now _that_ feat deserves a reward!”

“The only reward you’ll get is staying on this bed for a few days— weeks, even.”

He looks shocked at this arrangement. “What? No!”

London looks up at him with a slight mischief in his eyes. “It’s the consequences for basking in the glory.”

He groans, “I hate getting my wounds tended to by you.”

“Does your body hurt?”

“Apart from my arms and chest hurting like I got dropped from a two-storey building, I’m fine.”

“Can you move?”

Britain lazily moves an arm around. “Yes, now can I get up?”

“Absolutely not”, he chides, pushing Britain back down, “you need to heal from your wounds.”

“But- but the world needs me—”

“You won’t be able to stop the Third Reich when your entire body hurts.”

“I can’t _move_ around this bed!”

London sighs, “I forget how active and impulsive you are during war time.”

“To show the Third Reich that I have nothing left to lose.”

A noise of a nurse being pushed to a wall reaches Britain and London’s ears; they already know who was about to walk into the room.

On cue, France walks in, frantic. “Where’s Britain?!” She looks to the left, “Oh.”

Britain waves, predicting that she would hug him tightly and embrace him like there’s no tomorrow. “Hello, my love—”

“I would’ve slapped you if you weren’t injured enough!” France chides him, her eyes full of a growing concern. “I was _worried_ about where you have gone!”

“My apologies, dear—”

“Don’t ‘dear’ me!” she interrupts, her voice shrill; he cringes at the sound. “You didn’t tell me where you were going!”

“I had to do something”, Britain says, sighing. “I can’t just let the Third Reich enter the Norwegian waters; they’re neutral.”

“Even so”, France says — thankfully — calming down, “you should have notified me on where you were going before leaving me.”

“I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Now you’re hurt.” She takes a seat to his right, and without a word takes his hand in hers, and the warmth once again resides deep in him. “I could’ve helped you, you know.”

He does not listen, only focusing on the best thing about their relationship; her warmth.

“My love, I was able to defeat the Third Reich.”

“I know”, she says, kissing him on his forehead, and his skin tingles. Her eyes soften. “I’m proud, but at the same time disappointed.”

He slowly gets up so that he is levelled with her. “You’re mad?”

“A little bit— but I’ll stop being angry at you after a few days.”

He chuckles, “You were never able to be fully angry with me.”

She raises a brow, “I’ve been angry at you a century ago.”

“That was a century ago, but this is now.” He kisses her on her cheek, a smile on his lips.

The stinging pain that he had felt on his wounds faded slowly but surely as France’s warmth spread through his skin, the muscles that were flaring in discomfort weakening slightly.

He wished that they would have enough time to see each other, all day, all the time.

He can’t bear to be apart from her.

Not _that_ long.

He may have a problem if he’s always so reliant on her.

* * *

“The Third Reich lacks iron ore to make materials”, Britain says during a meeting, pacing back-and-forth. “I have contacted Sweden about the iron ore issue, but he has remained neutral during these tense times.”

“What do you propose we do?” France asks, interested— finally, some action.

“I suggest we land in Scandinavia before the Third Reich does, and cut off his supplies of raw supplies from Sweden.”

France stands, “We must be fast; the Third Reich is known to be quite sly and cunning, especially during war times.”

Britain nods, “If we are able to cut off his supplies as soon as possible, we might be able to win this war single-handedly.”

“We will restore peace back into Europe stopping him.”

“We can use the Soviet Union’s attack against Finland as a cover as we seize Sweden’s ore fields and Norway’s harbours, where iron ores are shipped to Germany.”

“Speaking of Finland and the Soviets' war”, France interjects, looking at Britain, “are we going to aid the Finnish after we successfully carry out this plan?”

Britain shrugs, “I don’t see why not; they are under a war with a large power.”

“I pity their predicament, but we have a mission to carry out.”

“Now, who wants in on this mission?” France raises her left arm, and everyone else agrees to this simple mission.

She just hopes that the someone above them will show them mercy and give them guidance to combat the darkness.

  
  


Third Reich exhales, looking back at his battle plans and schemes; biding his time, trying to find the best moments to strike, all the while fantasising his victory against the Allies. A smile curls on his face, his fingers drumming on the table with an efficiency. He hears someone opening and then closing the door, and he sighs with irritation, slowly putting down the papers for his next plan.

He turns to confront his newcomer, glaring, “Didn’t I tell you _Dummköpfes_ to knock before you enter— ah, _Grübe_ , _Ӧsterreich_.”

“W- Third Reich”, he greets civilly, his eyes on the floor, hoping that he did not notice his tiny slip-up. Unfortunately for the old man, he had heard that slip-up.

“ _Österreich_.” He says his name in a low voice, his great-grandfather’s attention turning to him. “I heard you say something.”

Austria gives him a hard stare, “I did not say anything.”

“But you _did_ ”, Third Reich says, stalking over to him. “Didn’t we make a deal where you would _never_ mention that name in front of me ever again?”

Austria lets out a sigh. “It was just a slip of tongue, Reich.”

“Which means you have not moved on from my change of name yet, _Urgroßvater_.”

“I _am_ used to your name”, Austria calmly slaps back, his fighting spirit long gone. “I was just tired this morning.”

“From what? Sedating my son? That job should be simple enough.”

“Your son is troublesome”, he replies, “he refused to give me a chance to sedate him, to even let me touch him. He is refusing everything I gave him.”

“Then assert more authority over him!” Third Reich bellows, making Austria jump at how loud his voice is. He points a finger at the older man, green eyes turning crimson with rage. “You’re _good_ at that, _remember_?!”

Austria visibly cringes, remembering the days where he had dominated the European mainland, indulging in all his desires and tastes, his only hobbies back then jesting and teasing Prussia.

But he was not a dominant power now.

He lost the Great War, and he — along with his family — paid for it.

Hungary ended things with him, leaving him lonelier than ever.

He had wanted to become powerful again, so he let his great-grandson _anschluss_ his land, bringing his people down with him.

He did all these things to feel powerful, but all he felt is guilt gnawing at every section of his body.

Especially when Poland was split in half between the Third Reich and Soviet Union.

Poland was once again in chains after only decades of becoming independent.

He spent the night after the invasion sobbing and drinking his thoughts away.

He calmly draws a breath. “Your son just doesn’t _want_ to be fixed.”

The Third Reich snarls and hits the table. “You’re _useless_! What good of a ‘psychiatrist’ are you when you can’t even fix my son?!”

“Third Reich, I am trying—”

“Well, even if you are trying, it isn’t good enough!”

“What if it cannot be cured?”

“Then he will _perish_ within that damned asylum!”

There was a silence between them as he collected his breathing, Austria purposefully looking down at the floor.

He sucks in a breath. “Call the troops; we’re doing Plan R 4.”

“To secure your iron ore supplies?”

“Why yes! And I feel like they’re planning on cutting our supply lines.”

Austria nods, standing. “Is that all, Third Reich?”

He gives him a glare full of loathing. “Do you want your work to be doubled then, _Österreich_?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Then _leave_.”

* * *

Britain and France trudge in the meeting room, bruised and battered.

Yet their faces, despite not being touched by any wounds and injuries, look the most unsettling and concerning above all their other wounds.

They looked numb. _Empty_.

There might even be a tinge of fear in them.

Paris was the first to speak. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

France opens her mouth, but instead of uttering a word she lets out an exhausted sigh, collapsing on one of the seats.

Britain was the one who answered his questions. “The Third Reich… he knew what we were planning.”

London furrows his brow, “What do you mean?”

“He- He just waltzed in Scandinavia”, Britain babbles, “he seemed to have known that we were here as well; we fought, but _he_ won.”

One of the French cities — Dunkirk — stands up, worried. “What did he do?”

Britain looks at their audience, his multi-coloured eyes full of fear and exhaustion— something that the cities had _never_ expected to see from someone as prideful as him.

“He took Norway… _and_ Denmark.”

A rigid silence hangs over the entire room.

And then the cities started muttering to each other in panic.

Britain lifts a hand in the air, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to disguise his alarm.

(But they had already seen his most vulnerable emotions, why hide it?)

“It seems the Third Reich finally made a move”, he says slowly but calmly, “and it resulted in two countries we failed to save.”

“What do we do?” London asks, worried.

Britain’s multi-coloured eyes glare at the walls with determination; now he knows what the Third Reich has got.

He was tactical.

He was smart.

He was cunning.

He was sly.

But he could unravel those knots as easily as he had unravelled his.

Because he has the same weakness as others.

His own _pride_.

It is slowly but surely clouding his judgement, a snake coiling and corrupting his mind with endless praises, until his tactful and cunning side wastes away to the compliments and praises his own ego came up with.

He must admit; his pride softened a little after that fiasco in Scandinavia, but there is no time to mourn.

“We must stay strong”, Britain says firmly, “we will not back out from the war, all because the Third Reich managed to get his hands on his endless supply of iron ores and the sea. We must remember; we have accomplished greater and more impactful things in our lifetimes. We have battled against enemies more intimidating than the Third Reich, and we are _not_ letting him win!”

A cheer rises from the cities, giving Britain the strength he needs— the strength the three souls in his body needed.

He smiles, “We must not fall back, we must move forward for our fallen comrades!”

France hides a smile beneath that exhausted face of hers, and the others cheer.

Although their combined noise made Britain’s headache even worse.

No matter; they will be able to win the war, all by themselves.

  
  


“We underestimated the Third Reich this week, but next time, we will be prepared.” France speaks whilst she and Britain walk into their room to rest for the night.

Britain busily unbuttons his tie, his eyes downcast. “If there will be a next time.”

She stares at him for a moment, before putting a hand on his shoulder. “It will be fine, _Bretagne_ , we can win this war— we win _every_ war.”

He sighs, looking up at one of the lightbulbs; artificial, yet it brings light. “I hope so.”

“Hey, what’s wrong? You’ve been addled ever since we came back.”

“We just witnessed the Third Reich’s power”, Britain says in a low voice. “He is cunning, tactical, smart— but I feel like he’s holding back.”

“We were _all_ holding back.” She thinks for a moment. “Except for Finland, _he_ was giving his all when he had been combatting the Soviet forces.”

He lets out a snort. “Heard that the Soviet Union got his eye injured when he and Finland met for the first time on the battlefield. The doctors told him it had an infection and they had no choice but to take it out.”

She chuckles, relieved to see her love joking around. “Serves him right.”

“Losing an eye must’ve hurt”, he muses, entering their bedroom after France did. “I wonder what it would feel like.”

“Pain, maybe”, France says, unbuttoning her uniform. He watches with interest, already used to her stripping down to her undergarments. “And then an everlasting loneliness once you remember you can’t see through that eye ever again.”

“You make it sound like it’s so morbid.”

She shrugs, “Do you wish to spend your entire life without a part of your vision?”

“I’d like to spend my entire life unseeing the half of the world that has managed to enter my mind.”

“Do you wish to forget about me?” She asks, already stripped down to her undergarments. Britain stares at her almost-bare body, wanting to tear the clothes that still hang on to it apart.

“I do”, he says with a twinkle in his eyes, his lips quirking. “So that I can marvel at how I had gotten a hold of a beauty like you.”

* * *

“All right, Third Reich, spill”, Britain says, crossing his arms, scowling at their enemy. “Why did you want to conduct a meeting with us?”

France narrows her eyes suspiciously at the man. “You’re not going to stab us in the back, are you?”

He snorts, putting an arm on the armrest of his chair, “What? Of course not; even _I_ have standards.”

“I didn’t think you’d have standards after annexing Poland, Norway and Denmark”, France snaps acidly, and Britain sighs— here they go again, fighting.

But now it was for a good reason.

“France, Third Reich, stop arguing with each other like you’re toddlers”, Britain says, turning to Reich, his eyes stone cold. “What do you want from us, Third Reich?”

He gazes at him coolly; those emerald green eyes used to belong to Weimar, and, quite frankly, Britain never had any reason to fear or panic whenever he looked at him. After all, what was so intimidating about that man?

But when the Third Reich gazes at him with the same shade of eyes, his heart stops beating for a moment as a dagger full of fear is lodged straight into his heart.

He draws back, before taking a deep breath; he _does not_ scare him.

“Do you remember those pamphlets demanding peace to be returned to Europe you dropped onto my country?” he asks.

Britain blinks; he _does_ remember that embarrassing thing he did (he started getting embarrassed after his friends started mocking his brain-rotting idea), but he preferred not to think about something as naive and as idiotic as that had been. “Yes? What about it?”

Third Reich takes a deep breath, before taking out one of the pamphlets, crumpled yet readable. His emerald eyes were on the tiny print letters, scanning each and every page. “I realised that perhaps… peace truly _is_ an option.”

“What are you trying to get at?” Britain asks.

“I’ve been considering peace once again”, he says, his smile dropping, much to the Allies’ surprise. “I… realised that I’ve been going too far, pushing revenge and anger into my troops, just so I can right the wrongs I and my family had done a long time ago.”

He stares back at them, _sincerity_ in his eyes. “I wish to make peace with you...” His smile curls up on his face again, “Before the both of you face the consequences of my power.”

France scoffs, propping her legs up. “I can’t _believe_ I almost gave in to your lies!”

Britain remains silent, clenching his fists.

The Third Reich chuckles sinisterly, “I should have kept my pride at bay whilst I had been saying that.”

“You think that was funny?” The United Kingdom asks through gritted teeth, “I was _buying_ your bullshit lies.”

France stares at him; it is rare for Britain to swear, especially when he is at worst frustrated.

The Third Reich just pisses him off in an indescribable way; just by the way the looks he sends at him makes his blood boil.

Third Reich smiles at him smugly. “Then it is your fault for trusting that I’ll be able to see peace while a war is brewing.”

Britain growls and lunges at the bastard, raising his clenched fist—

A hand catches it just in time.

He stops.

Out of the corner of his eye, France stands from her chair out of shock.

Third Reich tuts, shaking his head.

The hand that was gripping Britain’s fist hardens its grip, and Britain slightly flinches at the sudden pain, feeling his fingers being pressed to his palms.

“Britain, Britain”, he chides softly, “do you have to act on impulse immediately?”

“Do _you_ have the right to mock me like that?” he shoots back coldly.

“I don’t, but I don’t care about that”, he says, releasing his firm grip over Britain’s fist. His grip had been so hard that all his knuckles had been turning white and his fingers hurt whenever he moved them. “If you try and hit me again, I _will_ break your hand.”

Britain gives him another glare. “On whose orders?”

“Mine.”

“I _hate_ you”, Britain spits.

“As do I, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

“You deserve to rot in hell.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong; but you, Britain, France… you’re good candidates for hell.”

France’s eyes flare, and she tries to lunge at the man— Britain stops her, however, not wanting her to get hurt.

“You’re an _abomination_ !” France says, writhing and attempting to break free from her lover’s grip. “I should’ve _killed_ you when I had the chance! I didn’t think someone as weak as you could rise into power when everyone has hit rock bottom!”

“And believe me, I will do it, again and again”, Third Reich says with a smile, seemingly unhindered by the insults she had thrown in his face.

France spits at him.

His face darkens, and Britain shoots France a ‘Did You Realise What You Have Done’ look. France gives him a look that probably meant, ‘I Did Not’, as their life-long rival stops near the couple, glaring at the woman.

She sneers, “Do you want me to spit on you again—”

She interrupts herself by eliciting a high-pitched yelp as he slaps her across the face.

Britain lets go of France, as she staggers back, clutching at her bruised cheek, leaning on the wall for support.

After a few seconds of recovering from that unpleasant surprise, France glares at the Third Reich with gritted teeth, humiliated beyond belief. “I am _not_ a housewife who you can just hit whenever you like.”

“Would you like to be one?”

“Stop provoking her!” Britain speaks up, finally able to process their situation. “Third Reich… you will _regret_ the words you spoke to us today. I am not accepting your request for peace.”

“Nor do I”, France says, still wounded by that housewife response, clutching her bruised and reddening cheek. “We will _never_ forgive you.”

Third Reich chuckles, “I’ll never forgive you either.” He sighs, “Do you accept my wish for peace?”

Britain growls like an animal about to defend its prey. “ _Never_.”

“So you want me to proceed to the _real_ part of the war.”

“Whatever tricks you have planned up in your sleeve, we’ll divert it.”

Third Reich rolls his eyes, “I see.”

“Is the meeting done, then?” France asks acidly, still holding her bruised cheek. “If so, I and Britain have to go now to prepare for your attack.”

“You can leave; I won’t hold you back.”

“Mark my words, _Allemagne_ ”, France begins, “we will wipe the floor with _your_ blood.”

The only reaction that she had emitted from the Third Reich was a mysterious smile that remained until they had shut the doors.

* * *

Once again, he has another dream.

(It’s become no surprise to him at this point.)

But instead of expecting dead soldiers on his feet or another ruined city, there was nothing but a starry sky.

He stares at it, mesmerised; since when had he last stargazed?

He looks down at the ground he is stepping on— stone. It seems he is standing on a stony section of a mountain, staring listlessly to the sky.

All around him were trees— he must be in a forest then. There were all kinds of plants growing in this kind of forest, as far as moonlight can tell: tall, slender trees with minimal leaves, short and stocky trunks yet possessing a bushy mane. There were gigantic trees, growing since the beginning of time, its branches long and mangled, years of hard work put in. There were tiny saplings too, innocent and unaware of what life plans for it.

Britain lets out a breath, and to his surprise he can see it underneath the evening’s light; perhaps it was cold.

But he didn’t feel cold, he felt warm.

Why did he feel warm?

It was like there was an angel right beside him, breathing warm air right at his body, swaying him just a little like he was a tree rustling in the winds.

Britain relaxes as he feels the warm winds, reminiscent of a kiss.

It was as if France was there with him, arms around his neck.

He really _does_ wish that she were here in her dream, basking with him in the moonlight, its cool colours pleasing to his eye.

The stars were twinkling brightly above him, and somehow he wished that he was up there, only watching from the barriers of the sky as humanity tore itself apart. Although, it must be quite lonely up there, to be seated in the same place for thousands of years, with no company other than the other celestial bodies, yet you cannot interact with them, only becoming brighter and brighter everyday until he finally explodes.

It was a very nice feeling, being alone in the forest at night.

 _Too_ nice.

He suddenly becomes alert.

There must be a reason why he was here.

With alertness and panic taking the reins of his veins, he starts to walk backwards, feeling the moon watching back at him with a hidden motivation deep in his eyes.

He prepares himself for an ear-piercing scream to fill his insides with fear and destroy the serene place that his mind had created.

His dreams are sneaky like that; stripping him down until his more vulnerable side is showing, and then it goes for the heart.

Just like in real life.

A wolf howling makes him jump slightly, and, stepping backwards, he trips on a small pebble and lands on the hard and stony ground.

He takes a deep breath to relax himself; he didn’t need to be scared, it was just one of the few beautiful — yet deeply unsettling — sounds of nature.

Still seated, his hands covered with gravel, looking up to go and admire the moon.

He gasps.

The moon and stars were still there, but they were being overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of an aurorae.

Admittedly, Britain has only ever seen a marvelous force of nature whenever he goes into trips in Scandinavia.

One time, he and France had witnessed an aurorae when they had taken a trip to Sweden after the Great War had come to a close. There were beautiful shades of green, pink and blue up in the air, flowing like colourful guitar strings in the air.

It had mesmerised him, wishing that there was something as beautiful and as enthralling as the aurorae in his own home.

The aurorae that he was seeing now seems… _different_.

It had peculiar colours, such as white, blue, red and a brighter shade of green.

He stares up at it for a moment, distracted, figuring out what it means for him and the outcome of this war.

Then he blinks as it dawns on him.

With delight, he stands, looking at the aurorae with a perceived enchantment, before thanking the gods by singing praises towards them for such a wondrous and beautiful dream.

He wakes up, feeling happy with himself.

* * *

“France!” Britain kisses her gently, surprising her sleep-deprived body. “You would _not_ believe what I had dreamt about!”

France, thoroughly confused, looks at her lover with confusion. “You seem… _happy_ this morning; what have you dreamt about then?”

“That we’re going to win!” Was Britain’s enthusiastic and only answer, muttering to himself as he boils a kettle of water.

“Are you _sure_ you deciphered your dream last night correctly?” France asks, her hands on the table as she pesters her boyfriend for answers.

“I’m _sure_ , France”, Britain says, racing around, opening cupboard after cupboard, trying to find an unused tea bag.

(He’s been looking for unused tea bags for _minutes_ now.)

“Really?”

“Hella.” He whistles in jackpot as he manages to find an unused and new tea bag lying innocently in one of the cupboards. “My dream, with that- that _aurorae_ , must mean that we’re going to _win_ this war, France.”

“But how accurate _is_ your dream?”

“As accurate as you want it to be!”

France sighs; she rarely ever gets to see Britain’s uncontrollable and hyper side, and when he does show it, it was both embarrassing and endearing. “So you saw an aurorae of your flags’ colours in the sky— what’s the big deal about it?”

He puts the tea bag on his cup of soon-to-be tea, still smiling widely. “France, don’t you get it? We’re the _victors_ of this war!”

France’s face still looks uncertain, which loses a few screws in Britain’s confidence and smile, but he shakes it off. Her look of precariousness is not going to rain on his parade, not ever.

“France, why do you seem so unsure?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

She snaps out of her faze, before looking at Britain with a small smile on her face. It wasn’t those passionate smiles or mischievous smirks, it was just that— a _smile_.

Honestly, it bothers him a lot.

In fact, he’s bothered by everything.

He doesn’t make a move, waiting for her to spill what she has to say from her mind.

After a few seconds of silence, she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ve just been… superbly stressed about the war, you must understand me.”

“I do”, he takes her hand, “I do understand you; but believe me when I say, that if this dream is true, then we will have a thousand victories against the Third Reich, enough to last a hundred years. He will surrender when we show him our full strengths, and he will start kneeling and begging for mercy.”

She smirks, her body oozing with confidence, “Yes, we’re going to win against the Reich— the sooner, the better.”

“Your defense plan will be able to make the so-called ‘fearsome’ Reich turn back”, he praises, rubbing her shoulders. She sighs in pleasure. “Your walls of defense will _never_ crumble; you are one of a kind.”

His woman chuckles full-heartedly, “We have only been overestimating him, but he is underestimating us; let’s show him what we got.”

“He’ll regret putting Europe back into a jeopardy.”

“He’ll regret coming to our lives just to wreak havoc.”

They press their foreheads together, “We’ll both make sure that he doesn’t cross the borders and win.”

* * *

“Alright everyone”, France commands the troops today while Britain watches her at the back expectantly; he absolutely loves it whenever France is commandeering someone around. “We have just received a letter from the countries Belgium and Luxembourg.” She lifts a pair of purely white envelopes, with both the Belgian and Luxembourg seal. Her face was full of worry. “The Kingdom of Belgium has — once again — been used as a pathway to the Third Reich just to get to me. And Luxembourg… has been annexed by the German forces unopposed.”

A handful of panicked and grim mutters start flooding the room, but Britain — who was leaning on the walls — lifts up a hand, effectively silencing the dozen cities and countries that were already being intimidated by the Third Reich.

Britain glares at the floor; _no one_ should be afraid of that fake.

“We must act fast”, France continues, “I expect the Third Reich to meet with us in Belgium, so I have contacted my son, saying we are fast approaching, ready to defend my land and my son’s. Luckily enough the Maginot Line will force the Third Reich’s forces to divert into our best soldiers.”

“The Third Reich had also surprised the Netherlands this evening as well”, Britain speaks up, taking out another envelope, this time with the Dutch seal. “His forces landed at The Hague and Rotterdam.”

“We must act _immediately_ if we want to win”, France paces back and forth, her tone urgent. “The Lowland countries need us, and we need them. We’ll move to the Netherlands quickly to assist with their situation, and meet with Belgium.”

“We must all be on high alert”, Britain reminds them, “because _this_ is the _real_ war.”

“Gather the troops”, France turns to Paris, who nods. “We must not waste time— the Third Reich’s forces are moving inland as we speak.”

“Let’s go”, Britain says immediately, both serious and excited at the same time; he is sure that his dream is correct, and that they will win against the Reich during the Battle of Netherlands. “Our friend needs the help and support he can get.”

* * *

On the tenth of May, the Netherlands’ dream — and subsequent morning — had been interrupted by the sound of aircraft engines in the sky. He was forced awake by these sounds, processing and complaining why there were machines in the sky, before a realisation forces him awake.

He gathered his clothes and things, running outside whilst still wearing his nightclothes, absolute fear and panic in his eyes.

His peoples’ eyes were looking up, in shock and fear, some whispering and muttering to themselves.

Having no choice — and being curious as well — he looks up.

His dark blue eyes widened in horror.

The sky was blue and the sun was shining like it was a happy day today, but it wasn’t.

Because as the day carried on, the clouds kept on carrying German aircraft, landing on Dutch shores.

“Bastard”, Netherlands mutters under his breath, already frustrated with his neighbour. “I declared myself _neutral_!” He mutters a few more swears against the Reich to himself, before realising he has people to look out for. Giving the sky one last dark glare, he shouts for his citizens to seek shelter and evacuate the country.

“I will _find_ you Third Reich, and when I do, I’ll tear you apart.”

  
  


… Was what he had said three days ago, back when the Germans started invading.

He had been confident in driving out the Third Reich’s military himself— _too_ overconfident.

And now he is forced to fall back just after three days engaging with the Reich.

He underestimated his power; pride truly is everyone’s weaknesses.

Even with French artillery supporting him, he’s still falling behind.

 _If he loses and surrenders_ , he thinks to himself as he looks over his battle plans, _he’ll just have to defend Belgium and Luxembourg from Reich’s assault_.

He thinks for a moment, light blonde hair falling to his eyes, sighing. “Didn’t think that the Reich was _this_ strong.”

France exhales, smoking. “Scared?”

He glares at his former beau; he is reminded of why the two of them didn’t work out. “I’m _not_ scared, _Frankrijk_.”

She disposes the cigarette in her mouth and takes out another one. “Don’t flatter the Third Reich, then.”

“You seem to have a severe hatred of the Third Reich”, Netherlands says, digging into one of the boxes of cigarettes, before taking out one and lighting it up as well. “Not that I don’t hate him, sinceI abhor his existence as well; I already stated I was neutral in this nonsensical war.”

“He does not care whether you are involved or not”, France replies. “He will only reap.”

“He took me by surprise.”

“That isn’t a reason for _you_ to be losing.”

He growls; he had been a tad bit annoyed when France started to intercede over his battle plans, but he starts getting angry whenever France interjects with a snarky remark. “I wasn’t saying I was _losing_ , France.”

“The Third Reich managed to close in on your country and our children as well”, France says with a sigh. “I am here to give you more supplies for the war and check up on you.”

“I don’t need a woman checking up on me”, Netherlands says with a snort, “why don’t you go back to your guy friend?”

“I will, realising that you were so weak against the Reich.”

He stands from his seat, “ _Frankrijk_ , I am very annoyed with your intrusions.”

“You have the Spice Islands underneath your control, but you can’t keep your country under control?” She laughs to herself. “What’s next, the Japanese Empire taking the Dutch East Indies?”

“Don’t jinx it”, Netherlands replies, “The Japanese might take Indochina from you after the Reich took your own lands.”

“That would _never_ happen.”

“Then _don’t_ let that happen; check every single opening, every obstacle.”

“I have, and we are ready for a confrontation with the Third Reich!”

“You _think_ you’re ready, but when he attacks, you are not.”

France groans, shaking her head. “At least I had time to prepare for aircraft ruining my sweet spring morning, _Pays-bas_.”

“You’re getting on my nerves”, he sighs, “all I want is my country back.”

“All I want is a peace of mind back.”

He laughs bitterly, “Don’t we all?”

She was about to say something, when an explosion rings out from the outside.

The Netherlands was already running, in sync with the winds.

* * *

**THE NETHERLANDS SURRENDERS TO NAZIS**

“The Netherlands surrendered”, France says bluntly, passing the paper with the latest event around. The environment in the room has never been as bleak as this before, as people silently read the headlines, expressions grim. “I suppose this means that we can focus on defending Belgium and my borders.”

“I’ve received ships of the Dutch survivors”, Britain says, “my son — the Dominion of Canada — has the Dutch Royal Family.”

“We can worry about Holland’s defeat later”, France says with an aloof stare, “we have to think of _now_.”

“Luxembourg is with me as well”, the fusion reminds her, “forming a government-in-exile, as you do.”

(They have forgotten about France’s older son surrendering after combatting with the Reich for a day; honestly, France doesn’t have the heart to blame him for surrendering.)

“What is it with the German family and not understanding the terms of neutrality?” Paris asks to no one with a drained expression.

France ignores his question, preferring to continue, “Belgium needs our help more than ever; we’re the only ones who can help with his current situation.”

“Let’s act fast before the Reich does something funny”, Britain says, “we also need to keep guard of the French borders— he’s trying to make us reach our limits _thrice_ this month.”

“I will _not_ let Reich take another one of our allies”, France says, putting her fist on the table. “We will defend Belgium to the bitter end.”

“My dreams since last year have been warning me of a future where everything is bleak”, Britain stands up, no doubt about to start an inspirational speech. “But last week I had a dream where I was staring at an _aurorae_ with my union jack’s colours. I am sure and affirmative that this meant that we will win the war, and that the Third Reich will _grovel_ on his knees, begging for mercy.”

* * *

“He outsmarted us all”, Britain gasps as he feels a bullet grazing past his ear. He was not injured physically, but his pride was injured. He felt like crying, but not because of his plans being outsmarted of course, but it was because of the smoke in his nearby surroundings; he will never get used to its smell.

_We all know the reason why we’re crying_.

 _What if I still want to be in denial of our impending defeat_?

“My dream...” his voice comes out as a croak from all the refugees fleeing the Reich, France’s shouts, Belgium running to the Reich so he can surrender, the German armies advancing. “I thought we were going to win.”

“I thought so too”, France replies with a comforting voice, “but right now, we need to fall back.”

Out of all the dusty debris that was distracting his eyes from the main thing, his multi-coloured eyes make out Belgium’s silhouette running to the opposing forces.

“What about your son?” he asks his lover weakly.

France stares at the vanishing figure of Belgium with a solemn expression. “He’s decided.”

Britain widened his eyes, although he was not surprised— if he had known that this was the Reich’s impact he would have already surrendered. “Ah.”

(Not like he would have surrendered to the Third Reich after all; he was an empire that dominated the world and seas for centuries. He is not going to get gobbled up by this big-shot stomping all over the place.)

He makes do of France’s current expression. “Disappointed with your son? Don’t worry, it happens.”

Her earnest expression gives way to an indignant one as she realises what he had just said. “‘D-disappointed?! In my _son_?! Of course not, what do you take me for?!”

“Calm down, woman”, Britain says, leaning on one of the walls for support, “I thought you—”

“You thought _wrong_ , Britain!” she says, “Don’t make assumptions like that and compare me to you!”

He takes a while to respond. “... I’m sorry.”

She stares at him with a disgruntled expression. “Let’s just go.”

_You made her mad_.

 _You can always pin the blame on me,_ Sasainn _, but we both know who was at fault_.

  
  


Belgium announces his surrender a few hours later.

* * *

“Die, you fuckin’ hellspawn!” He shouts with gritted teeth; he is _not_ going to lose to someone who just took the love of his life away.

And he is _not_ going into one of the boats headed back into his home _without_ France.

That will be selfish.

(But hasn’t he been selfish ever since he had been made?

Ever since all four of them have been born.)

He kicks the Third Reich on his chest, causing the bastard to stumble away from him. He lets out a deep breath, preparing for a fight that has already begun. He furrows his brows, his multi-coloured eyes glinting even brighter than they were before— it meant that all of the fusion’s occupants’ souls were moving as one, having a similar goal: to defeat the Third Reich.

Third Reich, however, only smirks, his gloved fingers extracting something from his pockets.

He takes out a weapon from his pockets.

Britain bites back a laugh, but inside everyone is laughing.

Third Reich had pulled out a dagger.

“And you expect to defeat me with such a small weapon?” he scoffs, cracking his neck. “ _Please_ , I have witnessed far more capable weapons able enough to murder me.”

Even when he is underestimating such a small weapon, he can see a powerful aura swelling around it.

He smirks, unsheathing his dagger.

Britain frowns; this dagger does not look like any other kinds of daggers he’s seen.

It looked almost… _fragile_ , but strong as well.

The blade looked as strong as glass, translucent— knowing the Reich, he’ll have to start avoiding this weapon as well.

He almost missed the symbols etched onto the blade; they look so transparent that he was not able to comprehend what they were making out.

“Why are you still underestimating me, even after I’ve proved to you that your pride has caused you your downfall?”

He snarls, getting ready to fight. “Because I _know_ that I’m able to win.”

He raises a brow, “Are you able to?”

“I _am_.” He lets out a starting scream before trying to hit Third Reich clean in the face; unsurprisingly, he dodges his act of impulse.

“My my, Britain, you’re not thinking properly”, he mocks, making him even more furious. “Are you… _upset_?”

“You are the _worst_!” He tries to land another hit on Third Reich, his entire world becoming smaller and smaller until he can only see his target; not the forests, not the cities, not the dead soldiers around them, he can only himself.

Third Reich dodges his second blow, sighing. “ _Großbritannien_ , why are you so angry at me?”

“You should already know by now!” He attempts to kick him, but he side-steps, still wearing that smug smile across his face. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I much prefer Weimar rather than you!”

He raises a brow, “Now, why would you say such a silly thing? Why do you want him back after mistreating that fool so much?”

“That’s not important!” He tries to land another hit, angry and confused and devastated at the same time—

He catches his arm.

Britain’s eyes widen.

 _Fuck_.

Third Reich smiles.

Then he bends his hand backwards, and his radiocarpal joint _cracks_.

The fusion grunts and then howls in pain as his wrist breaks. He opens his eyes and he sees the Third Reich’s emerald eyes glinting with excitement, his smile widening, showing off his sharp teeth. Of _course_ he’d be revelling at the pain of others.

Britain wants to break free, but he does not know how— if he tries to hit him with his other fist, surely that would also be broken. With a grunt, his left foot collides with Third Reich’s ribcage, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back, letting go of his hand. He caresses his hand, slightly hissing at the stinging pain that the Third Reich had inflicted. He is positive that he has broken a joint of his, since he can hear something snapping as he moves it.

He’ll aid himself _after_ he frees France from the Third Reich, wherever he was keeping her.

“Where’s France, asshole!” He bellows.

He shrugs, “Kill me first and you’ll find her.”

Britain rolls up his sleeves, before parting his hair with his fully functioning hand. “And that’ll be easy.”

“I’m not Weimar”, he states matter-of-factly.

“I know, but I’m not ‘fraid of you.” He clenches his only good fist— this will not be an easy fight when he has an injured hand, but he must find where France is. His injured hand pats the gun in his pocket; he will need this when this fight becomes dire.

“You prefer Weimar over me because he was weak, correct?” He twirls that particular dagger around his fingers; now he is sure that this weapon is hiding a large secret. He stops twirling his weapon, emerald eyes gleam dangerously. “I’m not Weimar, and _I am_ stronger than him.”

“I can see that.” He exhales. “But that will not dissuade me from killing you.”

“Let’s see who gets killed, then.”

Britain narrows his eyes, “ _You_.” He runs towards Third Reich, planning to elbow him on the chest, enough force and time — hopefully — for him to push him down and shoot him right in the heart.

Because monsters _have_ no heart.

Third Reich does not move from his spot.

“France is currently running from my forces”, he says casually, dodging every hit and kicking the man in front of him offers by sidestepping, “once I’m done with you, I will force France to surrender.”

“No, _I_ will kill you”, he snarls, finally getting a hold of his collar, “a promise is a promise.”

His smile widens; _All according to plan_.

He dodges Britain’s elbow, the hand gripping the weapon that will cause Britain’s downfall targeting his eye—

The fusion cries out in alarm and pain, feeling its eye socket coming loose from his head, as the knife that had lodged itself in there starts to move.

Third Reich could not help but _laugh_ at the pitiful situation the poor fusion is in now. “Who’s winning now?”

“B-bastard…!” Britain lets out a hiss, his head coming up with creative swears against the Third Reich. He lets out a few deep breaths, hissing in pain. After a few minutes stumbling and attempting to recover from a nasty surprise, he glares at the Reich with his remaining eye. “I-it don’t hurt at all, not even a bit.”

He was lying; it hurt like _hell_. He grits his teeth to try and tolerate the pain, feeling the vision in his left eye go dark, while his remaining working eye is blurry with tears of pain.

But no, he must not cry in front of Third— that would make him look weaker than he already is.

Wait.

Was he really weaker than him?

Third Reich moves the weapon, like he was toying with him.

He hisses in pain, his rabid breaths amplifying.

He cringes as his eye being pulled out elicits a _squelching_ sound— almost enough to make him vomit out of pure disgust.

(He had never been that hindered by blood and gore, but once it’s on his body… he feels sickly.)

And his eye is pulled out by the weapon he had underestimated, its glass blade turning crimson red from the blood.

Deep inside the fusion’s mind, its occupants are in an internal debate, leaving Britain frozen, staring at his eye. England slowly puts a hand onto the socket that used to have its own eye; now it was just an empty socket, without anything to fill it in.

_“We should just escape immediately”, Wales says, “we’re no match for him!”_

_“Who_ said _we’re no match for the Third Reich?!” England exclaims, “He just got a head start before us, that doesn’t mean we’re already defeated_ ! _”_

 _“We_ will _be defeated if we don’t give up the fight”, Scotland replies, “we know you love France, but we can look for her another time_.”

 _“That is unacceptable!” England argues back, “She’ll hate us forever when we abandon her; she’ll end things with us_ again _.”_

 _“That’s what you care about?” Wales supplies, “France hating you forever rather than your_ — _our_ — _health?”_

 _“I still_ like _France”, England retorts, “and I am_ not _losing to a German.”_

_“We will all be dead with you on the lead”, Scotland says, “let’s just unfuse and get this over with.”_

_“We’re_ not _unfusing”, England stops him, “that means we’re cheatin’ against him.”_

 _Scotland scoffs, “He just_ stabbed _our fusion’s eye out_.”

 _“Just because he can cheat his way into a battle doesn’t_ mean _that we should do the same thing as well.”_

Third Reich tuts, “ _Großbritannien_ , did your father ever tell you never to stop moving during a battle?”

Britain instinctively stops feeling the removal of his eye; it still stings, and he feels an empty hole, an abyss of his feelings spiralling together into one. “Just planning something.”

He smirks gleefully, “You don’t need a plan.” He twirls his knife, his eye still attached to it; honestly it makes his blood boil. “Because I already have what I need.”

He scoffs, “My eye?”

He gives him a toothy grin. “Well, yes.”

Britain’s breath hitches as he feels the winds in the entire world enter his body through his empty eye socket. He feels himself open his mouth, letting out a scream; with all four voices that share this fused body. Due to the strength of the winds and the pain sapping off of his strength, he kneels defeatedly, clutching at his throat and trying to close his open jaw. His remaining eye glows bright, covered in the colours of the occupants in the body.

“You see, _Großbritannien_ ”, Third Reich says, smugly staring at his kneeling body while the winds of the world extract the souls out of his body, “you underestimated this weapon as well.”

Britain only chokes in response, as an aurora of all of his occupants’ souls start to exit his body.

He now realises what the aurorae in his dream meant.

It wasn’t a victory in the war.

It was their souls being ripped out from their fusion.

How could he have misunderstood it in a way that meant the Allies will win?

However, he could not help staring at it.

It was beautiful, in a way.

Like it was created by an anomaly in nature.

But this view was artificial; fake, made from another man’s suffering.

Third Reich continues, “This weapon is designed to absorb a soul, or in your specific case, _souls_ .” He chuckles. “I made this weapon just for the three brothers that live in your body; aren’t you _all_ special?”

“You will _die_ by our hands!” The fusion screams, except he says this in all three voices of its occupants.

“Hm, I don’t think so”, he says with a small laugh, moving the weapon around and around, the aurorae following its location. His green eyes light up, “Actually, before you are sucked into this blade — since the three of you are holding off so well — would you mind describing this feeling for me? Do you feel a numbing pain, as if a leech is sucking all of your blood silently, or if you are being stabbed over and over again?”

“I can feel them _TUGGING_ at my insides, _REFUSING TO LET GO_!”

He raises a brow, fascinated, “ _I_? Now who is the person talking to me this time? Fascinating.”

Britain yells, his good hand letting go of his throat to search for his gun; when he fires it, he sees the bullet zipping through the air like a boat sailing—

It hits the Third Reich right in the chest.

The bullet escapes his ribcage.

The fusion lets out a noise of victory;

The Third Reich stands back up once again, his emerald green eyes glittering with malevolence.

His eyes widen, _NO_ —

He smirks, “ _Entschuldigung, mein Freund_ , but I’ve already expected that little stunt.”

And all of the power inside of the fusion’s body grows silent.

Britain’s remaining eye becomes a concerning grey, void of all emotion. The fusion lets out one final breath until it falls on the floor, limp and seemingly dead.

The aurora of souls enter Third Reich’s weapon, and he smugly stares upon the captives’ new prison, delighted. “I can’t believe this actually _worked_!”

“ _Mein Führer_ , pardon us for interrupting”, one of the soldiers said, lifting up Britain’s body, “but what shall we do to this criminal’s body?”

“Oh, just let it be”, Third Reich says, waving his hand, “after all, no soul needs the body anymore.”

“Yes, _mein Führer_.”

“We will be celebrating our victorious battle in Dunkirk”, Third Reich announces to his soldiers, smiling. He looks up at the sky. “ _Siehst du, Vater? Ich habe das erreicht, was Sie monatelang nicht erreicht haben, und ein paar Wochen Zeit übrig._ ”

He and his troops evacuate Dunkirk, a full bag of souls and victories present in his clutches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Alles klar West, gute Nacht- All right West, good night  
> Schwächling- weakling  
> Gute Nacht, Vater- Good night, father  
> Wir sehen uns am Morgen- I'll see you in the morning  
> Es tut mir leid, wenn ich etwas falsch gemacht habe, Vater- I'm sorry if I've done something wrong, father  
> Guten Abend alle zusammen- Good evening everyone  
> mein Exzellenz- my excellence  
> Ganz und gar nicht- Not at all  
> Dann mal gute Nacht- Good night then  
> mon fils- my son  
> stommerik- dumbass  
> Ich werde für immer dankbar sein- I will be forever grateful  
> klaster nakhren- cluster fuck  
> calme-toi- calm down  
> ich werde gewinnen- I will win  
> Was zur Hölle- What the hell  
> Siehst du, Vater? Ich habe das erreicht, was Sie monatelang nicht erreicht haben, und ein paar Wochen Zeit übrig- See father? I have achieved what you have tried to do for months in a matter of weeks


	2. PART II: ALONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britain wakes up in a war-torn Dunkirk.  
> Wait-- did you just refer to it as Britain?  
> Oh no.  
> You've got it all wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TW: SEXUAL ASSAULT AND SLIGHT HINTS OF COLONIALISM, ABUSE, AND RACISM**  
>  okay so i FORGOT to talk about this in last chapter's note, but this was a VERY old tumblr post (https://countryshitposts.tumblr.com/post/188297566918/concept-britain-in-formal-clothes-then-unfusing) about fusions. i forgot about it until like about a few months ago, before i started writing this fic. but yeah, this is the birth of the entire sub-topic of fusions in my headcannons.

**PART II: ALONE**

_ “One ought to be afraid of nothing other than things possessed of power to do us harm, but things innocuous need not be feared.” _

Dante Alighieri, Inferno

Immortal beings like France are… blessed — or cursed — with dreams that foresee their futures. Whenever they dream, their own subconscious will travel days, months, years into the future, examining events that will happen to these immortal beings, evaluating them based on their importance. Sometimes, these dreams established in the future were useless; they all were, but some dreams were easier to decipher than others, and she was only able to understand those dreams that warned her days after it had happened.

She had a dream a few days before she was sitting here, in a railroad cart; the same cart where the Deutsches Reich had declared their own very surrender.

She was hunched over the same desk that the Deutsches Reich had seated back then, signing  _ her _ surrender.

This was the same thing as what happened in her dream, except she was standing in the middle of the forest, writing all over the barks of trees that she had surrendered.

She writes her name in cursive, before letting go of the pain like it had pained her to be holding it. Needless to say, she  _ was _ in pain; she had surrendered to the person she never expected to surrender to, and it was gnawing at her insides.

She knows these feelings that had stirred up inside of her, but she only saw them from other people’s faces— shame, embarrassment, humiliation… feelings that she had  _ never _ felt all by her own.

France…  _ disliked _ being helpless.

It was gnawing at her bones, like a snake crawling, slithering onto her body.

And she can’t shake it off.

There was a reason why she had been so skeptical of Britain’s vision of the war ending with their victories; it was because of that dream being stuck in the back of her mind, waiting for the right moment to prove her right.

But she decided to doubt both of their dreams, waiting to see which happens first.

Apparently,  _ her _ dream had happened first.

(She had already doubted the validity of Britain’s dream, but she had been hoping that his dream would have happened first.)

She sighs, leaning back on her chair, looking down at the table with the armistice contract. She doesn’t want to look at the contract that had meant she surrendered to someone as menial as the Third Reich, but she also didn’t want to look at the bastard who made her surrender in the first place. Even when looking down, she could feel his eyes burning her, picturing his smirk.

If only Britain was here, but that would mean he was also going to surrender.

She wanted to hold his hand, but that’s it.

She only wanted comfort from what could have been.

She puts her head in her hands, reminiscing how she had resumed a relationship with Britain — which had counted England in as well — thrice in a row. It was… nice to believe she loved someone.

Did she really love him?

She shakes her head, sighing; she should not be doubting the validation of her feelings, since she knows the truth of her love for Britain.

After all, they’ve been together for twenty years now— they’ve had their ups and downs, but they’re still stronger than ever.

It would be shitty to waste  _ everything _ she’s done for this relationship.

It won’t even do her good if she split up with him.

She’s so lonely whenever she’s all by herself; she’s not used to being alone like she used to any longer.

That is what she is like with Britain— he’s the type of man that keeps her crawling back for more, until she had enough, she had too much, but she’s already drugged with the warmth and the prospect of being in love with him.

He makes her heart beat fast; it was the reason why she had been drawn to him, again and again.

And she didn’t want it to end.

She didn’t want to be alone, without someone to love her.

That’d be a  _ nightmare _ .

She smiles to herself, trying to quell the tears of shame from her eyes— maybe she should turn these emotions into writing material once she got herself out of this pickle.

( _ If _ she gets out.)

“What are you smiling about?”

In an instant, the smile that she had unconsciously made vanished from her face, immediately reminded of the intensity of her current situation. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the Third Reich staring at her with a fascinated expression. She grits her teeth, fingers digging in her palms; she didn’t like the way he’s looking at her, like an animal lost to the predator’s trap.

She didn’t even know why she had been thinking about that dream in the first place.

“Were you smiling because you accept that you will be enlightened as my puppet?”, Third Reich asks, his smile remaining on his face.

“I wasn’t”, she spits back at him, “Why would I  _ enjoy _ being your puppet?”

“You’ll realise that you  _ love _ serving under me”, he says, tapping at her signature, “and only then will you be truly enlightened.”

France has the urge to spit at his face again, but she controls herself— not like she was afraid of getting slapped, but more like she was afraid he’d try something worse. “Why should I when you already ruined my life?”

He laughs, “Fate is such a ridiculous thing, isn’t it?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You made us meet up  _ here _ on purpose.”

“It was a fitting revenge”, he snickers to himself. “My father sat here on this very railroad cart, signing and declaring his surrender, feeling  _ humiliated _ and  _ defeated _ .” His emerald eyes glint with pleasure at the sight of France’s defeated posture. “And now two decades later,  _ you’re _ signing your own surrender; isn’t it  _ ironic _ ?”

His laughter echoes around the room, and in her ears; she doesn’t entertain his volatile reactions, her fingers digging into her uniform. It was…  _ odd _ , being on the losing side— she did have her fair share of losses, but they weren’t all as humiliating  _ as this _ .

This was a sick joke.

But it was admittedly  _ fitting _ .

Once he stops laughing he says, “But I’m sure that you don’t want to serve under me directly, hm?”

“What are you trying to get at?”

Her breath hitches as he lifts her chin, forcing her to make eye contact with him.

His eyes hold a thousand souls, begging to be let go.

“I’ll take half of you, and make that half subservient for me, then.”

She stares at him, dark blue eyes glinting. “Before you do…  _ that _ —” She doesn’t know how to react at such a perilous — and shameful — situation, her fingers gripping at her legs. “I want to ask a question.”

“Shoot away.”

“Where’s  _ Bretagne _ ? Did he make it out safely?” She asks, attempting to sound like she was worried over him.

(Shouldn’t she be distressed at the thought of never seeing Britain again?)

“Ach,  _ Großbritannien _ ...” He feigns a look of deep thought before looking back at her with that  _ stupid smug smile _ on his face. “He’s dead.”

She was definitely sincerely surprised at that statement. “No… No… he  _ can’t _ be— he’s— he’s a formidable man!” She stares down at the table, tears clouding her vision, before looking back up at him. “You’re  _ lying _ !”

“Oh,  _ Frankreich _ , I may have lied and deceived you all, but believe me when I say—” he pulls out a dagger in his pocket, its blade tinged with crimson blood, while the untouched parts of the blade looked like an aurorae of colours were trapped inside. “I won against him.”

“No, it can’t  _ be _ —”

He smiles, chuckling, “But it  _ can _ be.”

He slices her body in half while she is still in denial.

* * *

**FRANCE SURRENDERS TO THE NAZIS**

* * *

“We  _ can’t _ cooperate properly if Britain’s not here yet!” York exclaims frustratingly, trying to quell down dozens of cities speaking together at once, either in panic or in outrage. “Just settle down or Imma start slapping all of you!”

“What’s taking Britain so long in this current campaign?” Birmingham asks, worried, “he never took  _ this _ long!”

“Prolly takin’ a hike in the Ardennes”, Glasgow replies, skeptical of Britain’s victory in this war.

Liverpool glares at Glasgow, “Too soon.”

“So what if they got ambushed ‘cause the Third Reich has some tricks under his sleeve?” Manchester says, “we’d still  _ win _ the war; that fusion is making sure of it.”

“We won’t be able to  _ win _ the war if he and London haven’t returned yet!” Aberdeen bellows. “It’s been a  _ month _ !”

“Which is reasonable for them to take long, may I mind you”, Bristol speaks up quietly, “so I am sure that he and France won the war.”

“We haven’t heard crap from Britain or London after the Third Reich went around the Maginot Line!” Glasgow replies.

York sighs as they continue to spread reassurance and comfort to the other panicking cities, the hand gripping the latest newspaper hard. “This is the reason  _ why _ I called a meeting in the first place.”

All cities, Scottish, English, and Welsh, look at the city with disguised curiosity.

He lets out a deep breath and throws the newspaper to the table.

He counts down from three until all shit breaks loose.

_ Three _ .

All of the cities simultaneously blink, processing the information.

_ Two _ .

Some cities gasp, and their expressions morph into one of worry.

_ … One _ .

All hell did break loose, and York was compelled to join them.

The sea of voices were interrupted from their deductive reasoning, however, when someone opens the door, its hinges squeaking in the process, and the intruder panting hard like they had been running their entire life.

It was London, and he did  _ not _ look as pleasant as people wanted him to.

His clothes and some parts of his skin were tainted with blood. His eyes were full to the brim with fear and panic. His uniform was dripping wet. And he was covered in various kinds of wounds.

“Jesus, London, you’re dripping wet”, Glasgow comments unhelpfully.

“Thank heavens you and Britain are back!” York cries out, relieved. “I was going to go insane with these cities.”

London slowly looks up at him, his breathing calming;

Before he completely lets out nerve-racking sobs, enough to make his whole body shake.

“London!” Manchester steps forward, “What’s the matter?”

“And  _ where’s _ Britain?” Liverpool asks.

At the mention of their leader, London sobs even louder, muttering incoherently. “He’s  _ dead _ .”

A rigid silence invades the room.

York shakes his head. “No…”

“He  _ is _ ”, London weeps, “I saw the Third Reich suck the life out of him,  _ literally _ . He’s  _ gone _ , gone gone gone!”

No one had the heart to say otherwise.

It starts to rain.

* * *

**THE UNITED KINGDOM MISSING AFTER BATTLE OF DUNKIRK**

* * *

“Shit.” Was all the United States of America can say when her younger brother gives her the freshest issue of the day.

“That was what I had said too when I saw the headlines this morn’.” He stares up at his sister’s ceilings, not particularly admiring it, but he had nothing left to do. “Mom surrendered too.” His tone was worried.

“The Third Reich seems to be a threat to the Europeans now, it seems.” She lets out a deep breath, adjusting the curls of her hair. She tried not to care about what was happening in Europe at the moment; after all, she had much more pressing matters to discuss, such as her economy and whatnot. She stretches her arms, wishing that she would be out in the open, inhaling fresh air.

“Only to the Europeans?”

“He don’t scare me.”

“He seems to have scared the living shit out of our dad, though.”

“His problem, not mine.”

“If he declares war on you, are you still going to say that?”

“Why would he declare war on me when I haven’t done anything?”

Canada shrugs, “He probably finds your existence annoying.”

She slaps him affectionately with the few papers lying around. “I’m the most entertaining person in the world!”

He rolls his eyes, “Sure you are, America.” His tone becomes serious again, “But seriously, do you think the Third Reich and Italy are a threat?”

She examines her nails, “Er, not really.”

“What about the Japanese Empire? Heard he’s currently at war with China.”

“I don’t really care about what’s happening there as well.” She narrows her eyes, “Unless he does something  _ extremely _ stupid.”

“But don’t you think that Father going missing spells the most of our concerns?”

“Did they find the body?”

“London claims that the Third Reich sucked the life out of him—  _ literally _ .”

“Eh, not my problem.”

“... You’re not really going to care unless it affects  _ you _ , won’t it?”

She laughs, “You know me too well. I’m  _ untouchable _ ; and if they don’t mind their own business, getting bored of beatin’ Europe up and targettin’ me, then they’re going to have a huge problem. But not me, not me.”

“You have a lot of pride in yourself.”

“Wow, it was  _ that _ obvious?”

“Heard that mom was forced to sign on the same location as the Deutsches Reich did back during the Great War.”

“Ironic, considering that the Great War that happened only two decades ago was ‘The War To End All Wars’.”

“I just want peace back.”

She pats his shoulder affectionately. “Brother, like I said: we’re  _ untouchable _ .”

He doesn’t look that convinced. “For the meanwhile.”

* * *

“Zealand!” The youngest brother grimaces as he hears the sound of Australia’s footsteps approaching. “I’ve got some news!”

New Zealand sighs, looking up to face his eccentric older brother. “What is it?”

“France surrendered to the Third Reich a few days ago.”

The thing about being in Oceania is that news travels slow, like a turtle carrying the lines of communication across its back. Honestly, the news travelled so slow here they might as well just fly to the mainstream event to see everything with a new perspective.

“Is the Third Reich really  _ that _ powerful?” New Zealand asks as he skims over the contents of the newspaper. “Taking out most of mainland Europe in a year.”

“That’s not the only news I’ve gotten my hands on this morning”, his older brother pulls out a newer issue, dated a day after France declared her surrender. “They say that after their defeat in Dunkirk, Dad went missin’.”

“The issue’s  _ that _ serious?” New Zealand pipes up, his eyes wide in surprise. “I never thought that the day Dad lost a battle was a day worth remembering.”

“The Third Reich promotes anti-semiticsm though”, he points out, sitting right next to his brother. “Really likes gettin’ off of Aryan being a supreme race or whatever.”

“A nutjob, is what he is.”

The ginger snorts, “Well, Weimar’s already a nutjob himself, so it ain’t no surprise that the Third Reich is as well..”

He sighs, shaking his head. “What a painful life to live in.”

“Pretty sure the Japanese have something up in their sleeve”, Australia diverts the subject, looking at the windows. “Heard that ever since dad’s defeat and promptly going missin’ after the battle Burma’s been makin’ silent agreements with the Japanese Empire for independence.”

“Bet that that bastard would turn Burma to a puppet state anyway”, New Zealand replies.

Australia lets out a deep breath. “Man, we all are involved in this damn war in some way, aren’t we?”

His younger brother shakes his head, sighing. “I don’t think I like it.”

“I don’t like it either.”

* * *

They were  _ no one _ when everyone existed.

They are not supposed to be able to breathe or  _ live _ ; they are only a vessel to serve the various occupants in their body.

They would not have been created — or crafted — if the brothers did not have agreed to disagree, creating a United Kingdom.

They were not supposed to be sentient; why  _ should _ they be sentient? The brothers, most particularly England, are the ones who make decisions for this body. Decisions that this body — this  _ vessel _ — should not oppose. They are only a body for these fused brothers, and without their stability as a fusion, they were never meant to exist. After all, this vessel was created because the brothers had merged together, and they have no right to live once they decide that what they have is… gone.

Before the Battle of Dunkirk, they were nothing.

They were only a body, used as evidence to prove the unity between the entire island.

They never complained— how could they, when they are not able to think?

They are not able to speak.

They are not able to move freely.

_ They have no soul _ .

In the ruins of Dunkirk, lay a body of a fusion; its occupants’ souls were absorbed into a weapon of mass destruction, leaving the body empty. It was empty, devoid of everything a desirable human should have; a mind, sentience, feelings, sense, personality, and  _ a soul _ . All fusions of different immortals who have souls themselves are stored within the fusion. However, no one has ever told them what’ll happen when these souls are sucked out without being unfused.

A spark resonates within the abyss of the body, and in no time, dark blue flames start to rekindle the cold and doused out hearth.

The body  _ has a soul _ .

_ Finally _ .

Its heart starts to beat.

It was not empty anymore.

It only saw darkness (how could they see when they did not have eyes?) when it never existed in the first place but with its remaining eye closed now… it could see vivid colours hurting its eyelids and retinas.

The colours and the light were scalding, honestly.

Wait.

Colours?

_ Light _ ?

It opens its remaining eye— grey and colourless and dull.

With a gasp, it bolts upright, breathing rapidly.

Then, it processes their surroundings like a machine, confused to what is happening to it right now.

Confused at  _ everything _ , actually.

It hisses as wind blows right at its empty eye socket.

…  _ Why _ was his eye socket  _ empty _ ?

It doesn’t have a memory or clue to what has happened before; it only remembers what just happened  _ now _ .

It started  _ existing _ .

It takes a deep breath, trying not to panic.

It failed.

It screeches, scaring half of the birds feeding on the dead away.

It blinks; the  _ dead _ ?

What is the meaning of ‘dead’ anyway?

It didn’t even know where it got its words.

Why was it here?

Why did it have to wake up in the middle of a ruined city, with dead bodies being fed upon by scavengers, and—

What is  _ that thing _ in the sky?

_ Sun _ .

It blinks, processing the information.

“H-hello?” The newly independent fusion calls out to particularly no one. “Is anybody here?”

No one answers, except for birds squawking.

It makes a move to stand; unfortunately, it pushes its weight over its broken left wrist. It writhes in pain, regretting its choice at the moment.

“Why’s  _ this _ limb messed up?” It asks itself, studying its wrist; it’s never felt a body part hurting before until now.

Well, its body was covered in bruises, but they don’t feel as painful as whatever happened to its hand. Every time it moves its hand, it twitches in soreness. Whoever broke its hand must have been hellbent on dissuading them from engaging with them even further.

It blinks.

Was it alive earlier this day?

But how come it does not remember what had happened before it woke up?

It tries to think, think for an answer or a memory, but all it could remember was colors it had never seen before appear, like a star blinkering out of nowhere but is being monitored by. Its memories of earlier this day, of yesterday, of a week before that all come up blank,  _ void _ .

A natural swelling forms in its throat— to be honest… It is feeling unpleasant right now.

It blinks.

_ Feeling _ .

It never  _ felt _ before.

Strange.

“It’s like I started existing at this moment”, it jokes to itself, chuckling a little (something that surprises it, since it has never  _ chuckled _ before). Its chuckling dies down, and its remaining eye droops. “What happened here?”

It avoids walking on the dead people (with some sort of uniform…?), having the common sense of not defiling a man’s body. It feels a sense of discomfort as it stares into dead men’s eyes, dying with their eyes and mouth open, in an eternal scream. It gulps; why did it have to wake up in such a desolate and unsettling surrounding?

There must be a reason.

Its eye widens, “Am I dead?”

It blinks with its one good eye— it’s  _ only _ good eye.

“I sure do fit the description”, it muses in a sing-song voice, silently covering its empty right eye socket with its hair; a very beautiful shade of chocolate brown. “Maybe I’m dead, but first, let’s see the location of where I woke up.”

It looks around, walking amongst the ruins, the dead, and the discarded weapons laying on the dust-filled ground. The ruins seem to appear new— like a battle had just happened a few days before it started existing.

_ Battle _ .

Huh, that’s another new word to its vocabulary.

_ Where did all those words come from _ ?

The fusion reaches a sign, and it reads it aloud.

“ _ Bienvenue à Dunkerque _ ”, he reads, straining to pronounce a few of them. It hears someone chuckle at its inexperienced pronunciation at the back of its mind, but it does not remember where that laugh came from. It warmed his insides though, but not the type of warmth that starts a wildfire. It stares back at the billboard in confusion, trying to decipher what kind of code it was. “Perhaps this city is — was — Dunkirk.”

_ Wonder what happened here, and why I’ve been lying on the ground with a wound exposed _ .

It sighs, wanting to remember why his left wrist was broken and eye socket empty.

It doesn’t remember  _ anything _ .

Is that bad?

_ I’m pretty sure that it’s bad, if I don’t remember anything _ , it thinks to itself, staring at the billboard again, and now it notices that just like the city, it was bleak and destroyed.

_ Did I induce amnesia over myself _ ? It thinks, bouncing on its leg subconsciously, studying the contents of the name Dunkirk.

It was somewhat familiar, like a dozen travellers have whispered its name, entering the body’s ear. Its name was so familiar, yet it didn’t know where it came from in the first place.

The city looked abandoned, like a ghost town, so that must mean that people either died or fled when the battle came knocking on their doors.

The body felt…  _ out of place _ .

“Well, I don’t want to be here”, it states, sighing to itself, looking around for a possible way out of this ruined city.

But it felt out of place  _ within _ itself as well, like its body  _ does not _ belong to them.

Like it had been  _ used _ by someone else.

_ Yeah, used by me _ .

But it doesn’t believe that sentence.

Its memories are not even returning to it, so what it must be having is not a mild concussion.

_ Concussion _ .

That’s another new word.

Where did it  _ come _ from?

It was like whenever his word bank is limited with only up to a few words, another word comes to the picture to supply its unfinished sentence, like an unconscious blip into existence.

It’s making the body believe that this is  _ not _ its body.

But  _ whose _ is it, if it is not its?

Maybe it will find out when it exits this haunted place.

It studies its body, covered with dried blood and — probably infected — wounds, “I’m probably a ghost, hellbent on taking revenge on someone who had killed me.”

It stops walking, it's dark grey eye shining, like a spark being rekindled.

_ Did someone kill me _ …?

It stares at the ground, down at its shoes; it never learnt how to walk, but it started moving all by itself, like it  _ knows _ how to walk.

“Ah…” It lifts up one of its legs in fascination. “How do  _ I _ walk?”

It is really hopeless, like it had just started existing in one of the most volatile periods.

(It  _ did _ .)

It walks further away from the main battlefield, looking down at the ground, its feet trampling over small pebbles and leaves— it  _ loves _ the sound it was making. With a smile, it keeps stepping over the leaves, enjoying the way it  _ felt _ and sounded underneath its shoes. The leaves crinkling was enough to make this body calm and relaxed, despite the smell of death and smoke lingering on its nostrils.

Its eyes were now on a tall flagpole, with a flag waving proudly against the winds. Its colors were a crimson red, a white circle at its centre carrying a strange — but very memorable — symbol.

The symbol was so familiar it is enough for images to start entering its mind like a blurred out presentation.

Its breath hitches as these images collide with its own psyche, the symbol becoming larger and larger, and its breath starts to quicken.

Whatever the hell this image was, it is agitating the vessel. It leans on the flagpole, trying to calm its breathing, tired and confused. It never thought that its conscious would react so…  _ violently _ at the face of a flag. It clenches its eyes closed, waiting for its breathing to alleviate and these — disturbing — images to fade. After that whole ordeal, it takes a deep breath; it stops, realising it was its first time taking a deep breath to soothe itself down.

Where did it get those methods from?

Or was the method already well known and all-too familiar with its body?

It sighs, drained just from walking, its head pounding with a migraine (another new word). “Being alive is too draining.”

_ Alive _ .

An eye looks up at the setting sky; it was its first time seeing beautiful, warm colours in the sky, the way the clouds move slowly as the sun surrenders itself to the skies. It was the first time feeling the winds all around the body, and how warm and cold it was. It was its first time seeing trees, paths, ruins of a city, and the dead on its feet.

(Well, it would rather unsee the dead bodies than remember them.)

It touches its face gingerly;  _ alive _ .

The word repeats in its mind, once, twice, thrice.

It was  _ alive _ .

The vessel is  _ alive _ .

The body had realised that it started to exist.

(Fortunately, and unfortunately.)

“I’m alive...” It mutters, “I  _ exist _ .”

Does it really  _ want _ to exist, though?

The real world looks like crap, anyway.

(Ha, crap— another new word in the vessel’s vocabulary.)

_ Maybe the world isn’t  _ as _ bleak as what has happened here _ . It thinks, feeling confident about itself.

As it walks, it realises something;

It  _ never _ remembered what its face looked like.

It knows that the color of its hair is a dark brown, and its skin was pale, but it never really saw what it  _ looked _ like.

_ I must be handsome _ , it involuntarily flatters itself, putting a smile on its face.  _ Must be the reason why I was murdered in the first place _ .

The gears in its mind start spinning.

_ Murder _ ?

If the body has to be honest… it doesn’t understand the concept of murder. It stops walking for a moment, staring at its surroundings, before getting another chill, so it continues walking.

It doesn’t like being in this ruined city, quiet, lost,  _ alone _ .

Its body starts to grow cold at the word  _ alone _ .

It seems that even in this new existence, it does not like the word.

… Well, it’s not like the new soul dislikes the concept of being alone.

It’s just not appropriate being by oneself in a ghost city.

But if it would choose a crowd of people or sitting by itself, minding its own business, it would choose to be alone.

Why would it choose to be alone, when being alone is not a pleasant experience?

It must be a wrong answer, since something tickles its spine; a lingering gaze, a  _ memory _ . With a start, it turns everywhere, trying to find who has been watching it.

But there was no one there.

It must’ve been a spark of a memory.

Maybe it would enjoy being with other people if it  _ actually _ experienced being with other people.

Because as of now, it doesn’t enjoy being alone, solo.

It hears a sound of someone gasping behind it; unlike the various sounds that made it think that it was being delusional, this sound was something it actually  _ hears _ with its own ears, and not at the back of its head.

It whips around, and is faced by a young man, his clothes torn, his hair disheveled, and his skin purple with bruises. The most striking thing about him was that he was looking at the person (was he really one?) with an astonished expression.

Something at the back of its mind tells it that this man had been familiar.

Finally, it has company.

With a smile, it takes a step forward, running an introduction in its mind.

Then it stops.

Oh, right.

It doesn’t have a  _ name _ .

It shrugs; why would it need one?

He takes a step back. “ _ Bretagne _ ?”

Its remaining grey eye flickers with familiarity, but it fades for a while. “You’re… talking to  _ me _ , right?”

The name was familiar, but  _ why _ ?

Honestly, why is no one telling it anything?

Living is  _ so _ frustrating.

He narrows his eyes, like he had just seen a ghost. “You’re supposed to be  _ dead _ .”

It tilts its head, “Am I, though?”

The man stares at him with a hard look on his face. “Where have you  _ been _ ,  _ Bretagne _ ?”

It blinks, confused. “I’ve been here in…  _ Dunkirk _ the entire time!”

“Don’t play games with me!” He approaches the body (it doesn’t know if it should call itself ‘Britain’ yet; the name doesn’t sound like it would suit the vessel), looking tired and exhausted. “Where have you been when France surrendered?”

There’s a twinge of familiarity — and longing — once it hears that name.

“I have no idea who that is.” It wasn’t a lie.

The man lets out a deep breath. “ _ Bretagne _ , I do not have the time for games.”

“Is that my name?  _ Bretagne _ ?”

He stares at it, an unreadable look on his face. “... You’re joking, right?”

Its face didn’t change, still stuck in a poker face. “Why would I be joking?”

He remains silent, before catching him by surprise by touching its face; a  _ very _ unwelcome gesture, as its body kicks into overdrive and it immediately pushes the man away with its one good hand. “D-don’t touch me.”

“ _... Mes excuses _ .” He swipes off imaginary dust from his torn clothing. “You are —  _ were _ — a very touchy man.”

_ Man _ .

For some reason, it didn’t want to be called a man.

“ _ Were _ ?” It focuses on that statement. “What do you mean, Sir…?”

He stares at it once again, before a small smile reaches his face. “You’ve never called me ‘sir’ before. And you’ve never looked so…  _ lost _ .”

“Well, I am lost, but I’m glad to have found you.” It gives the man a small smile, trying to be welcoming. “What’s your name?”

“You…  _ truly _ don’t know?”

“Without a doubt; why would I be joking?”

He opens his mouth, about to say something, before sighing and saying, “Dunkirk.”

It blinks, its eye on the sign with the name of the city on it. “So you were named after a city? It must have been a strange life. I pity you.”

Dunkirk’s eyes dilate, seemingly surprised by its statement. “Wait… are you saying you don’t know what I am? What we are?”

It turns to the dead bodies scattered to the ground. “We’re not like them?”

“O-Of course not! We’re immortals!”

The vessel stares at him emptily. “Are we?”

Dunkirk looks like he was about to explode. “... I think that we should talk about this where the Third Reich cannot hear us.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t want to recall the events that had just transpired a few days ago.” He reaches out to hold its arm, but it distances itself away.

“I don’t like being touched.”

“I see.” He turns away, “Then just follow me; I’ll guide you into the underground.”

“Okay.” It follows Dunkirk, away from the ruins and the bodies that surround the place, only looking at the colors of the sky and the way the leaves rustle when they are being caressed by the winds.

“I like the colors of the sky.” It smiles, “They’re very pleasing to look at.”

Dunkirk gives it a small glance of apprehension. “... I see.”

The pair started walking, as the sun lowered themself into the sky.

The vessel was quite excited when Dunkirk told him about some sort of ‘resistance’ against the Third Reich.

(He still has  _ no idea _ who that is.)

So it just smiled as Dunkirk continued on his way, about to introduce it to a variety of  _ new _ people.

(Or they were familiar, to its old self.

Whoever that may have been.)

It had so many questions to ask to Dunkirk, but he looks quite tired, so it quells his questions, saving them all until they finally got to this classified location Dunkirk keeps talking about.

It’s honestly making it excited.

It tries to contain its excitement, so it vents its excitement to small yet subtle movements; bouncing and skipping rather than walking, staring at the trees and the setting sky in fascination. It fixes its hair, realising that it has yet to see its own face, so it runs down memory lane— sadly, no memory of its face passes through, and it sighs sadly.

“What’s wrong?” It jumps and yelps slightly at the sound of Dunkirk speaking, almost making it trip over a pebble in its way. “Ah… did I startle you?”

It stares at him, and Dunkirk’s face looks unsure for a moment; why does he look unsure? “Well, yes.”

“... You don’t like loud sounds?”

“Maybe you took me by surprise.”

“I’ll… try warning you next time; you just keep zoning out, it’s quite hard to reach out to you when you do that.”

“Was just excited.”

He furrows his brows. “For what?”

“Meeting the others, that’s all.”

“... I suppose it does sound exciting, especially in your perspective.”

“You don’t feel excited?”

“Why should I? We’re at the time of a war, here,  _ Bretagne _ .”

“A war?”

“And we’re losing.”

“We are?”

“It seems so.”

It stares at Dunkirk’s defeated expression for a second, before a voice tells it to comfort the man who had just saved it from being alone. “... My apologies?”

Dunkirk draws in a breath, before looking at it, their eyes meeting; it feels uncomfortable with the contact and averts its gaze. “Well, you’re here now, so that means you aren’t dead like the Third Reich bragged about during the meetings.”

“So this ‘Third Reich’ killed me?”

“I suppose so— but you’re here now.”

“Why’re you glad I’m here now? I don’t even know who I am.”

Dunkirk stares at it with an interested expression; he stops after realising that it was being very uncomfortable by the way he looks at it. “We’ll talk once we meet with the other resistance members, but at least the cities back in your home would stop panicking once we send you back.” His eyes darken. “Well,  _ if we are able _ to send you back without the Third Reich noticing.”

“What’s wrong with the Third Reich?”

He doesn’t answer its question; which was bugging it, because it’s been waiting for the perfect time to ask its questions.

It steps on a leaf, the crinkling sound coming from it soothing its ears. “... Are we there yet?”

“Almost there.”

It smiles, “That’s nice to hear.”

“Strange.” Dunkirk silently muses, and the vessel was just in earshot for it to hear.

“What’s strange?”

“You were never a sincere smiler; you  _ rarely _ smile like you’re happy. It’s mostly just empty smiles or insincere ones that you have to pull so that you would look polite in front of others.” His face darkens. “Even when you were with France.”

“Who’s France?”

“Hm, Third Reich did a number on you.”

“Who is she?”

“Your  _ beau _ , if you don’t recall her yourself.” He says the word ‘beau’ hardly, like it had done something wrong.

It doesn’t say anything for a moment.

_ Beau _ .

_ What’s a ‘beau’ _ ?

Dunkirk senses the body’s confusion, and he lets out an exasperated sigh. “ _ Please _ don’t tell me you forgot what that means…”

Its small smile is enough to tell him it forgot what it meant.

“Oh  _ Bretagne _ … you’re hopeless.”

That name again.

“You’re calling me  _ Bretagne _ ?” it asks.

“Yeah, it’s… your name.  _ You’re Britain _ ; are you not?”

It stays silent for a while, before its eyes droop and it turns its head away. “I… never thought of a name before.”

“Well, we thought of one for you, and your name’s Britain.”

“But… isn’t that the fusion for people’s new name?”

Dunkirk blinks, “What?”

It puts a hand on its chest, tilting its head. “I’m… not Britain.”

He stares at him for a moment, before snorting, rolling his eyes. “Okay,  _ Bretagne _ , don’t go joking like that.”

It furrows its brow, disliking the fact he was not being treated seriously. “I’m not joking; why would I be joking?”

Dunkirk’s snorts die down, replaced with confusion in his face. “But… you look a  _ lot _ like him.”

“You must’ve gotten the wrong guy.”

“N-No… I’m sure that you  _ are _ Britain.”

“I don’t think I am; I don’t think I even  _ belong _ in this body, especially if it was a  _ used _ one.” Its eyes droop, looking downcast. “I don’t  _ feel _ like Britain.”

“I don’t understand...”

It shrugs off-handedly, like it was the least of its problems (it was the  _ biggest _ of its problems). “I don’t either, but here we are.”

Dunkirk stares at him with a look of personal loss in his eyes, before shaking his head. “Maybe you’ll regain your memory after we finally got to the resistance?”

It stares, “I already told you that I’m not Britain.”

He sighs, “Look, I don’t care if you’re Britain or not— I certainly do hope you  _ are _ , because that means that all hope for Europe is not lost yet, and all we need to do is try and make you remember.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

Dunkirk turns to it, frustrated. “You care about people not listening to you when the entire world is being torn apart?!”

It cringes at the volume of his voice. “I didn’t think it’d be that bad.”

“Well it  _ is _ bad, and what are you going to do about it? You can’t just try weaseling out of your responsibility! When the entirety of Europe sees that you are alive, unscathed, their fear of the Third Reich will waver, since he  _ did not _ kill you.”

“But I’m  _ not _ Britain—”

“I am  _ not _ repeating myself!” He lifts up a hand, silencing him. “We are going to the resistance, and we are going to think up a plan to get you outta here!”

“But—”

“Silence!”

It shuts its mouth, letting out a noise of indignance.

Dunkirk stares at it in surprise, tilting his head.

Britain was never one to listen to other people’s commands— except for his, so this was…  _ new _ .

Perhaps it was telling the truth.

He shakes his head,  _ It’s still a little too early to tell _ .

“All right, now let’s just walk towards the resistance as silently as we can.”

“... Okay.”

* * *

“I received another letter from Luxembourg just this morning”, the Netherlands declares, taking out an envelope with the Luxembourg seal. “I barely escaped from Germany’s forces with this intact.”

“What does it say?” asks Free France with an interested expression, leaning forward on the table.

He opens the envelope, skimming the letter’s contents before opening his mouth to read it aloud. “ _ To My Highly Esteemed Father. My exile in London has both been exhilarating yet anxiety-filling. I have been coming up with plan after plan to help you win this war, especially now that I have  _ —  _ humiliatingly  _ —  _ surrendered myself to the Third Reich. Ever since Britain’s disappearance, every city in the British Isles has been scrambling left and right, trying to come up with plans and tactics to slow the Reich down. They have even witnessed an invasion of the African colonies, as if to further emphasise that they were now alone. The Third Reich has been making threats of bombing down the cities to make the Isles surrender, but  _ —  _ obviously  _ —  _ they prevail _ .  _ They really are hopeless without Britain, but they seem to be holding off well. I will update you with much more interesting news when I see one. Your Son, Luxembourg _ .”

He folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope. “Seems that the British Isles have been doing well, even without their leader.”

France swings a leg, her head in one of her hands, elbow propped up. “I wished that we were doing well.”

He shrugs, his light hair bouncing with each movement. “It’s not the end yet.”

“I  _ know _ that it isn’t”, she replies indignantly, “it’s just that… everything just seems so  _ hopeless _ .”

The Netherlands stares at her for a moment, before closing his eyes. “I understand that— but the sooner we find Britain’s body the better.”

“Didn’t the Third Reich already say he was dead?”

“You’re believing in  _ him _ rather than your  _ beau _ ?”

“I… no, it’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just… before splitting me in half, he showed me the weapon that he used to kill  _ Bretagne _ . It was like no other weapon I’ve ever seen; it resembled a dagger, but that was its only similar property to such a non-lethal weapon like that. From my limited point of view, its blade was translucent, enough for me to see a prism of colours trapped inside— its hilt was silver,  _ too _ silver.”

“Are you saying that the Third Reich specifically crafted this weapon to maim only Britain?”

France looks down, toying with her uniform. “That’s my current hypothesis right now; did he ever show you the weapon during your fight?”

He shakes his head. “Did he when he had been fighting you?”

“No, only after I had  _ surrendered _ .” She spits the last word out, still in denial and in shame that she had done such a thing.

“We have yet to ask Poland, Czechoslovakia, or Belgium; so once they get back we can ask them.”

“I asked Dunkirk to scour the city where  _ Bretagne _ has been sighted a few days ago in; if he comes back with him, we will both be saved and we will know about the weapon’s properties.”

“ _ If _ Dunkirk manages to find Britain  _ alive _ ”, he corrects, letting out an exasperated sigh from France. “Then we can foolproof our plan on getting that guy out of here so that the Third Reich can see that he is not out of the war yet.”

“It’s also the perfect way to topple someone’s pride over”, France smiles, leaning back on her seat. “Can’t wait to see what Reich’s face would look like after someone who he thought to be dead was inspiring the people to never surrender.”

“I’d imagine… his mouth completely agape for a few minutes before turning into one of complete rage and anger.”

They chuckle a little, easing the tense knot around the air. Their short enjoyment dies down however, when someone clangs on the metal door.

“Why are you hiding behind me?” The familiar voice of Dunkirk wisps past the metal door, and they both look up, interested.

“Just nervous, is all.” Another familiar voice wafts through their ears, and their eyes widen.

They have a visitor.

France and Netherlands throw furtive glances at each other; they both have the same thought.

_ Could it be _ ?

  
  


Meanwhile, outside of the Resistance’s hideout Dunkirk and the newly-alive vessel were waiting for the doors to open.

Dunkirk rolls his eyes, “Look, I know this is the worst place to pick our location—”

“You all could’ve chosen  _ anything _ other than the  _ sewers _ .”

“It was so that the Third Reich couldn’t find us easily.”

“Then why not above ground? You could’ve hidden under the shade of trees, in an abandoned building, a warehouse—”

“ _ Bretagne _ , did you forget what ‘resistance’, ‘secret locations’, and ‘harder to find’ mean?”

“I told you, I’m not—”

“I believe you  _ are _ Britain, so stop arguing with me and let’s just go inside.” Dunkirk turns back at the door, “France, Netherlands, open up; we have a visitor!”

The body holds his arm, its eyes on the door. “I’m somewhat nervous.”

Dunkirk, surprised at the sudden contact on his arm, resolves to try and comfort it. “It’s… going to be okay. They know you, and you know them.”

Its grey eye twitches, “But I  _ don’t _ know  _ anything _ about them.”

“You  _ will _ when you get proper rest, meditation; then you’ll remember them.”

“B-but—”

Dunkirk glares at it, and it looks away. “Britain, we already talked about this.”

“That’s not my  _ name _ !” It bellows, frustrated at how  _ no one _ was listening to it.

“Jesus, keep your voice down!” Dunkirk berates it, “Attract Nazis to this place, why don’t you?”

It stares at its escort, “Do you  _ want _ me to do that?”

“O-of course not! It’s just that— that you don’t think of the consequences of your actions like you used to, Britain!”

“I only started thinking  _ today _ ”, it reasons, “I only started existing today.”

“Britain… I think the Third Reich messed your head enough to the point that you are not that wise before.”

It stares at him with a desperate expression. “You… don’t  _ believe _ me?”

“It’s not like I don’t believe you; it’s more like I don’t  _ want _ to believe that your situation could be true.”

“So you just want to turn your eyes away when someone is telling the truth?”

Dunkirk gives him a hard stare, before gazing back at the door, downtrodden. “It’s what  _ you _ always do whenever you’re given a hard choice; choosing to veil yourself from the truth.”

Someone unlocks the door, and its heart skips a beat; it was about to meet  _ other _ people.

It hoped that these other people would believe in its story more than Dunkirk had done.

It honestly makes it even more nervous; it fidgets with its hands, confused at how they will react to the newcomer.

“ _ Bretagne _ ?” A newer and feminine voice snaps it out of its thoughts.

Internally, it groans;  _ that _ name again.

Why is everyone calling it with that name?

Why can’t it be its own person?

It looks up, and its remaining eye lays on one of the most beautiful women that has ever existed.

She was pretty.

Enough to make its cheeks warm.

“H-hello.” It gives her a half-hearted wave, but then the next thing it knows was the woman  _ tackling _ him into an embrace.

It didn’t like this.

She buries her head in its chest, making it even  _ more  _ uncomfortable.

_ We just met _ !

“I miss you so much, Britain”, she says in a slightly forced affectionate tone, “so, so much.”

It doesn’t say anything, trying to create a plan to force her to stop  _ touching its body _ .

She stares up at it, a carnal desire in her eyes; to be honest, the way she looks at it was making the vessel uncomfortable. “Let’s celebrate our reunion in  _ private _ , shall we…?”

That’s when it reaches its limits.

With a shout, it untangles itself from her, pushing itself away from the woman.

She stares at it, blinking. “ _ Bretagne _ , what’s wrong?”

“I… I’m not—”

It’s uncomfortable of what she had been suggesting;  _ say it _ .

“I’m just not—”

_ I don’t even know who you are _ .

“ _ Bretagne _ , did I do something wrong?”

_ I don’t know you _ ,  _ you don’t know me _ .

_ But  _ I _ know her _ .

“ _ Bretagne _ ”, she tugs on its sleeve, further agitating it. “Speak to me; you’re always one to speak your mind.”

“F-France, I—”

It stops speaking.

Its expression goes blank.

_ France _ .

It knows that word.

It doesn’t remember the name.

What’s the point?

Then an ear-piercing shriek makes him double back, and with a shout of anguish it covers its ears.

_ HELP ME _ !

And with a gasp, dozens,  _ thousands _ of memories start to appear.

But it was not comparable to memories just floating out of the abyss.

These memories… came from  _ somewhere else _ .

Its breath hitches, and then it blacks out, its body falling to the ground as its soul dives into someone else’s memories.

_ You’re the only person who can save us _ . A voice within its mind says, echoing.

Its soul then starts to drown in the memories.

* * *

The memories that come into their small and largely empty mind were slow at first; like they’re making sure that the new occupant in their old body was being seated comfortably, processing every small detail with precision. The soul’s eyes gaze upon these magnificent memories, wishing that it had belonged to it.

It  _ never _ belonged anywhere.

Then it started to go faster, then faster, then faster; the increasing speed of the memories gave it no time to process every single one. Too bad, they all look incredibly interesting, way more interesting than its first few hours of life.

Then, the memories stop coming— the soul whines,  _ Already _ ?  _ It was getting riveting _ !

The memories then arrange themselves into rectangular picture frames (another new word) all around the soul, casting a small glow, shrouding off the darkness.

They became moving pictures; enough for the soul to not focus on one memory at the time.

Admittedly, it was  _ jealous _ at how vast and large the memories were.

It wished it had as many memories as the first occupant in its body had; they looked like they had a thousand years worth of memories.

The soul hears multiple people approaching it; it already loved hearing those small steps, curious to see who was invading its mind at the moment.

“The Third Reich had  _ no clue _ of the consequences of absorbing a fusion’s occupants’ souls.” A voice makes it jump, and it stares at the newcomer—  _ newcomers _ . It had been the man with smooth dark brown hair talking, a stern frown on his face.

His face was honestly intimidating the younger soul.

“We don’t have much time”, another man says, his hair a lighter shade of brown, with a gentler look. “The Third Reich will notice we are contacting our body once again.”

“Then let’s make things fast.” A man with fiery red hair and beard fixates his stare on the soul in front of them. “It’s okay; we were the occupants of this body before you arrived.”

“You guys were?” It asks, startled. “But… you’re  _ three _ souls occupying one body.”

The three look at each other, before staring back at the soul.

The man with the stern expression sighs, fixing his glasses. “Allow me to introduce ourselves before we dive right into our complex anatomy; my name is England, and these are my brothers — but we’re not really brothers — Wales and Scotland. Now that that’s out of the way, the reason why there had been three souls in this body is because  _ this _ body is a fusion of  _ our _ bodies.”

It blinks, thrice more confused as it was before. “Fusion?”

England groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We do not have the  _ time _ for this.”

“We can spare a few minutes”, Wales interjects, “you see, a fusion is where immortals fuse with each other willingly to unite under a single banner. The body that you woke up in is our bodies fused together— if we were to unfuse, then the body would cease to exist until we decide to fuse again.”

“The body of a fusion is almost always empty, since the fusion’s body itself has no soul”, Scotland continues, “so the souls of those who have fused can adjust well into the body, since the fusion is  _ not _ empty and therefore doesn’t need a soul when there are already multiple souls in there.”

“ _ But _ , it is possible — although not  _ that _ probable — that a fusion can gain a  _ soul _ itself”, England takes up the role of being an information dumper, “Which would only happen if the fusion’s body — the  _ vessel _ — is empty; like the souls of its occupants were absorbed.”

“We never thought it would happen”, Scotland says with a grim voice, stroking his beard, “but here we are.”

“So… I had been born all because you were forced out of your own bodies?” The unnamed soul asks, in front of them.

“Why yes”, England says, glaring at the soul, “be grateful that you had the chance of  _ living your life _ .”

The soul staggers back out of surprise from England’s words.

“England, don’t stress it out”, Scotland scolds his brother, before staring back at the soul with gentle eyes. “We need your help.”

“We need to be absorbed back in that body”, Wales says, “we need to help the others, but we can’t if we’re still stuck in the Third Reich’s weapon.”

“You’re our only hope”, Scotland supplies, face grim. “Kill the Third Reich and take us back into our rightful bodies.”

“This is your  _ only _ purpose”, England replies acidly, taking a few steps towards the young soul. “If you do as we asked, then we will consider letting you stay in our body.”

Scotland touches his brother’s shoulder, “England…”

“I’ll take up on the mission.”

It can finally be useful for something, anyway.

England scoffs, “You’re not allowed to say no at a perilous time like this; it’s your only purpose, that’s it.”

“I won’t let you down.”

Scotland turns his head back into the way they have come from. “My energy is already lowering; I believe we have said enough of things to make you understand what you are?”

It nods its head, face unreadable. “Yes.”

“Don’t let us down”, England says, “Because if you do, I will be more disappointed in you than I already was before.”

It gulps at England’s harsh way with words, and it averts its gaze.

“We’ll be waiting for you”, Wales replies, giving it a smile, “so long for now,  _ hwyl fawr _ .”

The young soul has quite a lot of questions stirring up inside of it, but it stays silent, weakly waving farewell at them.

As the three of them are consumed by a multi-coloured aura — an  _ aurorae _ — something consumes it too;

Darkness.

  
  


Waking up with a gasp, it bolts upright, its remaining eye shining.

Then it realises that they were not in the sewers — thankfully — anymore.

It was in a new location.

Unfortunately, there was nothing in the room that looks eye-catching or pleasing to it, the walls greying and decaying, the lightbulb above its body dim, and a person with light blonde hair sitting beside it, watching it.

“You’re awake.”

It nods slowly, uncomfortable with his gaze. “Yes, I am awake.” It toys with the blanket, noticing various holes and loose stitches. “Do you…  _ want _ something, Sir?”

He stares at it with a look of surprise, before smiling and chuckling. “This is… the first time you’ve called me  _ Sir _ .”

It blinks, “Am I not supposed to call you that? Are we friends?”

He stays silent for a moment, before sighing. “You don’t remember who I am?”

It stares at him for a moment; it  _ does _ remember him, a memory folding in on itself like a picture book. “... Barely.”

“Do you know my name?”

“... Netherlands— you were Britain’s — and by default, England and Scotland’s — friend.”

“... Why are you referring to yourself in third person?”

It feels something wrapped over its left wrist, and it realises it was bandaged, and so was its open eye socket. “I’m…  _ not _ Britain.”

Netherlands stares at it for a moment, before chuckling. “ _ Brittannië _ , you must’ve had some weed before coming here.”

It furrows its brow; this is the second time its predicament has not been taken seriously. “I’m not joking, so stop laughing at something serious.”

He — thankfully — stops laughing, taken aback. “You’re serious?”

“Why would I be joking?”

“I… okay.” He clears his throat, composing himself. “So… you’re  _ not _ Britain?”

“... I don’t know; it’s very complicated to turn into words.”

“S’all right”, Netherlands says comfortingly, “I’m here all day.”

“Well… maybe I should start with what happened today?” It looks at the Netherlands expectantly, waiting for his answer.

He throws it an awkward smile, “I don’t suppose why not.”

“I didn’t exist until just a few hours ago.” It takes a deep breath. “I was just… a  _ fusion _ , a body to be filled by other occupants’ souls. But when the Third Reich absorbed the hosts’ souls, the body became empty, but… still  _ alive _ . I had been nothing when they had been everything, but when he took them out of…  _ me _ , something inside of my body appeared: a  _ soul _ . I guess that my subconscious tried denying that I was  _ finally _ alive. And then my brain kicked in and… I realised I started  _ existing _ .”

Netherlands gives it another blank stare, before exhaling, “Oh… that is a  _ lot _ of information to digest, my good friend.”

“Sorry”, it replies, further surprising him, “they tried explaining it to me in the simplest words possible.”

“‘They’?”

“England, Scotland, Wales; they visited me in my dreams and gave me their memories so I can function well.”

“So you can access their memories?”

“... Something like that.”

“Um… okay. Do you mind if I test you?”

“Sure.”

“... All right. When did we first meet,  _ formally _ ?”

Its remaining eye glows, something that fascinates the Netherlands, searching through its hosts’ memories before it stops at one. It looks up, its blank expression remaining on its face. “You and the United Kingdom formally met on August 13, 1814 in London; called the ‘Convention of London’. The treaty restored most of the territories that they had seized in Malaya during the Napoleonic Wars.” Its eyes stop glowing, reverting back to a dull grey, staring at the Netherlands. “Is that correct?”

“I— well, yes.” He gives it a small smile, “Good job then, kid.”

Its lips curve upward. “You’re welcome. I hope that you understand that… I’m  _ not _ Britain.”

“I understand just as much”, he replies with a semi-comforting tone, “you don’t… talk like him; act like him; smile like him; stare like him. You’re like… an entire new being trapped in someone else’s body.”

It stares at him, its blank face showing emotion; was it  _ trapped _ in this body? “I— I’m not trapped; I’m the fusion’s soul.”

“Ah, my apologies. I’m still new to the properties of a fusion who got its soul sucked out.”

“I am as well, but I shouldn’t have the right to complain.” It looks down. “My only purpose is to bring back the souls of England, Scotland, and Wales.”

“... Wow, Britain rarely ever shares his own feelings.” He props himself up. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Well, I feel uncomfortable talking to someone who I just met, so...”

The Netherlands slightly cringes, “You’re blunt.”

“Is that a bad thing? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry if I did—”

“Oookay, I gotta stop you from babbling right there”, he says, lifting up a hand. “I’m still not used to  _ you _ out of all people apologising and being kind rather than civil to others.”

“I’m not the same person.”

“I-I know, but you look and sound a  _ lot _ like Britain so it’s kind of jarring.”

“Apologies, do you want me to change my look?”

“... That’s not what I’m suggesting at all.”

“Well, you did say that whenever I’m speaking you still imagine Britain… so am I the problem?”

“What? No, no, that’s not what I’m suggesting at all!”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Look, it’s not your fault you were born in that body; I’ll just have to get used to…  _ this _ .”

“All right, but you can tell me if you’re getting uncomfortable.”

“Okay?” He is  _ definitely _ not telling it that its blank look is making him fidgety; this vessel has all the memories of three immortals, but it had just started existing a few hours ago so it is very socially inexperienced.

“By the way”, it shifts under the covers, “where are the others?”

“Ah, after you passed out, Dunkirk filled us in about your current situation”, Netherlands says with a shrug, “he said that you seem addled.”

“I can understand that”, it furrows its brows, “but what I don’t understand is that he kept denying that I’m not Britain.”

He sighs, “Well… you gotta understand that we’re all in a tight situation; we’re all stressed, so when you finally came out of the woods unscathed—” He looks at its bandaged wrist and eye patch, “ _ mostly _ unscathed, we were relieved. That meant that the United Kingdom is alive and it would boost the British cities’ morale.”

“I’m not sure of how I can raise people’s morale.”

He touches its shoulder, which is  _ still _ an unwelcome move. “Well, if Britain can do it, you can too.”

“Um… thanks. One request though.”

“Anything.”

“Stop touching me.”

He quickly lets go of its shoulder, “Er, sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“You must be hungry.”

On cue, its stomach unleashes a low growl. “Seems so.”

“Let’s go meet the others, then”, the Netherlands says, “we’re cooking at midnight, haha.”

Its heart skips a beat; it was already drained interacting with the Netherlands, but now it had to face  _ more _ people? “Er, alright; let me just fix myself up first, though.”

He gives it an encouraging smile. “All right, I’ll tell ‘em you’re comin’!” It stands and walks toward the door. Before turning the doorknob, however, he turns back to the vessel. “What should I call you?”

It blinks. “Me?”

“Yeah, you’re not Britain, so you need a name.”

“Um… is that really important?”

He blinks in surprise. “Names are  _ important _ .”

“Then just call me anything, I don’t care”, it shrugs.

“Then… can I call you Britain?”

“Well… okay, since you know what I am by now.”

“All right, be there in about five minutes or I’m barging in again.” He turns to leave—

“Wait.”

He turns back. “Hm?”

“Why were you here with me in the first place?”

“Oh… let’s just say I kinda missed Britain. But you know… you’re not  _ him _ .”

He closes the door.

He only misses  _ Britain _ .

No one cares about the new person in this old body.

Absolutely  _ no one _ .

It feels  _ alone _ .

* * *

It feels the dozen pairs of eyes on its back as it makes way towards the small — and  _ very crowded _ — dining room. There were only a few small stools near the dining table, so a few were seated at the floors, eating their negative feelings away. Whenever it passes by a few people, their eyes never leave the stray body.

It was making it uncomfortable, honestly.

Biting its lip, it makes its way to the kitchen, since it saw the Netherlands’ bright blonde hair over the stove, and he was the only person who it only knew—

Someone stops it from walking to the stove by tugging on its arm;

“ _ Bretagne _ .”

It looks down at the floors, bouncing on one of its legs, waiting for the woman to let go of it.

Woman?

_ France _ .

Britain’s beau.

It already knows what beau means.

It can see why England (not Britain, not Scotland, not Wales, only  _ England _ ) fell in love with her; beautiful face, sweet disposition, the way she looked at Britain—

It feels sorry for her.

When it retrieved their memories, it also retrieved their feelings, situation after situation.

It may not be a love expert, but the way England felt about France…

It wasn’t real love.

Maybe it can talk to her about it at the right time.

So that they can both be happy.

“Y-yes?” It asks, slowly turning to face the smaller woman. “May I help you?”

“Is it true?” she asks with a look of hurt. “You’re not Britain?”

It didn’t waste time. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re sure that you just didn’t lose your memory?”

“No, I really am not Britain; my apologies.”

She tilts her head. “Do you…  _ like _ me?”

Well; that was a difficult question. He liked her, yes, just from the various memories of the both of them interacting casually with each other (it’s ignoring those more intimate memories, uncomfortable with those kinds of fragments), she is the kind of friend that it needed. But liked her romantically…? Well, it could see it happening, but not in the near future— but it doesn’t believe they could last long. Then liking her  _ sexually _ … it’s not going to delve in to that topic.

“What do you want to believe in?” It asks France, in that undecipherable expression.

“What?”

“Do you want the truth, or are we going to have to lie to ourselves?”

“... What do you mean?”

“You know I’m not Britain, right?” It reminds her, “I’m just a person stuck in a body that reminded you of a lot of things.”

(Honestly, it is starting to hate its body even more.)

Her face darkens.“Yes, I’m aware that you’re not Britain.”

“Then… I don’t like you romantically; I only like you as a friend.”

“How would you know that you don’t like me romantically?” France shoots back, “You just met me.”

“I have a thousand memories of England and you frolicking happily”, it declares, “I don’t feel anything from those, only feeling squeamish and out-of-place.”

“So… you don’t want to...”

“I… look, I —  _ we _ — are not compatible.”

“I see...” She looks away, clenching her fists. “You’re too cold and truthful; I don’t like it.”

“I’m sorry.”  _ But sometimes you must be truthful to people you love _ .

She grits her teeth. “You don’t act like him.”

“It’s out of my control.”

“Why are you so  _ different _ from him?!” She shouts, pointing a finger to its chest.

Everyone stops focusing on their midnight dinners and stares at what seems to be a lover’s quarrel.

It shrinks at the attention and France’s raised voice; it wasn’t used to this.

Not at all.

“I’m sorry if I’m so different from him.” It says, trying to calm her down.

Then it realises something.

Is this what Britain’s children feel like when he has been raising his voice?

_ Ah, what irony _ .

Well, despite being born into a grown man’s body… they were still a child at heart and mind.

_ They _ .

They smile in their mind.  _ Much better _ .

The slight change was enough for their confidence to rise. They stare at France, “Because I’m not Britain, the Britain you know. I’m someone else; a new person, who is now just experiencing the entire world. I’m sorry if I took Britain away from you, but you don’t have the right to take your anger and frustration out on me. That isn’t right.”

France doesn’t back down, though. “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?”

“I’m only giving you a few warnings and instructions to help you live your life; it’s your choice whether you take it or not.”

“I’m not taking orders from an  _ imposter _ !”

They stop for a moment.

_ Imposter _ .

Were they one?

Well, they woke up in a body that already belonged to others and started tampering with it; that must be close to being an imposter.

… Right?

They sigh, disheartened. “You’re right.”

France perks up, surprised.

Out of the corner of her eye, the Netherlands glares at her with a disapproving look.

They look up at France again. “I’m sorry for taking your lover’s body. I will never do it again.”

They suddenly don’t feel hungry anymore; maybe their ongoing identity crisis is filling their stomach up. “I’ll best be going now, my apologies for interrupting your happy meals.”

They trudge back into their room.

Meanwhile, France’s face morphs into one of guilt.

* * *

They were seated on the bed; it wasn’t much of a bed, more like a mattress, but at least it cushions their uncomfortable way of sitting. They sigh, studying the wooden and decaying floors; they regret exiting this room. They were not ready to interact with the others yet. They take a deep breath, trying to calm their rapidly beating heart. They’re not very good at this.

They’ve studied all of Britain’s memories— he was equally charming  _ and _ diplomatic, able to play everyone like guitar strings. He was not afraid of a measly conversation, or a basic confrontation; he was  _ always _ ready.

But they’re not Britain.

They’re someone else.

Why can’t they be like  _ Britain _ ?

Then they would stop being anxious at small social interactions, crowded places, confrontations, and are always prepared.

They pinch the bridge of their nose, looking down. Their good hand dig into their legs. “I’m no good at this.”

Someone interrupts their self-pity by knocking on the door.

They never heard someone knock on their door before; honestly, it’s very sweet-sounding.

“Come in.”

Much to their surprise, France opened the door, her hands were holding a small, wooden bowl. Her dark blue eyes find them, seated on their mattress.

“Um… what is it, France?” They ask, confused.

France wordlessly sits down next to them, and gives the bowl of soup to them. “ _ Je suis désolé _ .”

They take the bowl from her hands, before taking a spoonful of it, admiring its contents. They turn back to France, still looking away in shame. “I don’t know much about French, but judging from England’s memories with you, you were saying sorry.” The corners of their lips turn upwards, tilting their head. “Right?”

“Er… right.”

They put the spoonful of soup into their mouth, and they squeal in excitement, going starry-eyed. “Ah… this tastes so fine.” Maybe they just have a slight bias because they have not eaten for over a few hours, but the soup brought good taste into its taste buds. They beam at France, completely throwing her off guard. “Thanks for bringing me this!”

She gives them a slightly tilted smile. “No problem; you seemed quite hungry a while ago.”

They busily take more spoonfuls, feeding themself. “Yeah, I was very hungry, but then after you shouted at me I stopped feeling hungry anymore… that’s normal, right?”

She blinks, “Well, normal to those who’re stressed, yes.”

“Am I stressed?”

“I dunno— are you?”

They think for a moment, contemplating whether they do have stress or not.

Do they get moody? Well, it depends on the situation; if they are alone in a distressing location, then they’re able to get moody. If they’re with someone who won’t listen to what they say, then they can get frustrated. Then whenever they are near people that keep staring at them like they’re an alien, then they get agitated.

Do they feel overwhelmed? Slightly, especially in conversations where they have to carry everything.

Are they not able to relax properly? Terribly so; they were never able to be level with their own mind, like their own mind is breaking apart. The only thing their mind spews out are a bunch of insults to themself.

Do they feel bad about themself?  _ Yes _ , always has been.

They’re not Britain.

But people want them to be Britain.

It’s honestly confusing.

They meet France’s eyes. “I think I am.”

“Then… it’s normal.”

“Is there a way to cure it?”

“Pardon?”

“My stress; is there a way to cure it?”

She stares at them for a while— why does everyone here give them a blank stare like they did something wrong? “Um… look for ways to calm yourself?”

“How do  _ you _ look for ways to calm yourself?”

“Well… I usually massage my hands, especially when they’re also aching”, she says, “Do you… want me to show you?”

Clueless, they agree. “Of course.”

France’s eyes brighten, something in there slightly carnal. “Give me your hands.”

“Why?”

“So I can calm you down, silly billy.”

“All right.” They give her their hands, and France’s hands start to rub each of their fingers and knuckles.

They did not like the touches at first, but after a few minutes, their squeamishness becomes more soothing, as she does wonders over their hands. Their eyes brighten, and their breaths become even as France does her work.

They enjoy it, quite pleased; they are already relaxing. They exhale, closing their remaining eye. It was like they were on a tropical island, the waves of the sea crashing onto the golden shores, the sun shining brightly.

They were still alone in that vision, but…

They felt happy.

France, lacking the comprehension of personal space, mistakes their relaxed state as them submitting to her.

“Ah  _ Bretagne _ ...” She chuckles, unbuttoning her shirt. “I’m surprised that you lasted this long in this room with me, fully clothed.”

They silently whine at the loss of her relaxing fingers, so they open their eye, only for them to immediately back away.

France, already halfway through unbuttoning her second layer of clothes, did she notice the way they backed away from her. “ _ Bretagne _ , what’s wrong?”

“Why are you undressing?”

“But… I thought you were—”

“I’d been  _ r-relaxing _ , I haven’t been a-aroused; by w-what, f-finger rubbing?”

“That always gets you in the mood—”

They immediately stand, frustrated and angry all the same. “Is this why you came here? Just so you can sleep with me? Don’t you understand  _ what _ I am?”

France immediately deflates, and she starts to button up her clothing. “I didn’t believe it...”

Their frustrated face immediately turns to one of hurt. “So you— you denied who I am.”

France turns away.

They furrow their brows. “France, I don’t want to be rude to you, but I want you to get out of my room,  _ right now _ .”

France takes her clothes before exiting their room.

Now, they’re alone; which both relieved and upset them at the same time.

They sigh tiredly— why was it so hard to make people believe that what they’re saying was  _ true _ ? Were they never able to let go of their past, or do they not want to open their eyes to the truth?

They only see  _ Britain _ when they look at them.

Not  _ themself _ .

It was like they never existed; like they were a stand-in to the main fusion’s souls.

Like they were not a part of the fusion themself.

Why do they not like them?

Did they do something bad?

(Judging from the dozens of memories, they had a messed up history.)

Something wet lands on their pants.

Curious, they look down, a wet patch forming on the fabric.

They lift a hand, gently touching their cheek before staring right back at it.

_ Tears _ ; they were  _ crying _ .

“W-why am I crying?” they ask to themself, before more tears run down their face. Their throat swells up as well, not able to let out a word unless they choke it out.

_ Did something sad happen _ ?

They don’t recount something sad happening; people only cry when they are sad.

They start to cry freely when they realise these feelings cannot be stopped, letting out nerve wracking sobs to compensate with the way they’ve been feeling the entire day.

_ I’m such a hypocrite _ , they think, a small yet bitter smile reaching their face.

_ I also want Britain back, so I can stop living this lie _ .

_ This body doesn’t belong to me; it belongs to someone else _ .

_ I thought being alive was supposed to be exhilarating _ .

_ Turns out that it’s painful to be alive _ .

They lower their head, trying to contain their sobs, not wanting anyone else to hear of their unbecoming.

That would be embarrassing for Britain.

* * *

They wake up to the sound of people chattering in the dining room. They groan, rolling over their mattress, wanting to sleep just for a while; they did not have a good night’s rest like what people were told to have last night. They clench their only eye shut, pursing their lips as they pull the blankets on themselves tighter, feeling cold even when they are fully-clothed. They may be underground, hiding in the sewers, but they still feel like they were shrouded in darkness.

They hear people laughing outside.

They put their head on their legs, feeling  _ envious _ of them.

These people have social skills.

These people have friends.

These people know each other.

Those people outside didn’t start living  _ yesterday _ in a grown man’s body.

Yes, they indeed were jealous of the people outside this room.

Look at them, having so much fun, while they were stuck here, being lonely and alone,

… They really need to figure out whether or not they like being alone.

They lean on the decayed walls, looking at the ceiling. What even is the true meaning of being alone?

_ Being alone is… to create your own world where others won’t touch you _ .

_ Being alone is where you enjoy the things that you like to do by yourself without fearing others will bother you _ .

_ Being alone is being creative _ .

_ Being alone gives you time to think about what you’ve done, what other people have done to you, and observe them through the lens of a third party _ .

_ Being alone is relaxing, soothing the day’s stress away _ .

They smile;  _ that’s _ what being alone is supposed to feel like.

Not being stuck in the woods with dead bodies, nor in their dreams either.

They lie back down, sprawled against their mattress, staring blankly at their ceiling.

_ What should I think about _ ?

Their mind wanders to the  _ very _ unpleasant memory of France trying to sleep with them last night. To be honest, they did not get why France didn’t understand that they are different from Britain; did they act too much like him?

(No, the Netherlands says that they were beyond Britain’s personality.)

Then why did France undress in front of them when she already knows that they were not the man she loves?

_ The man she loves _ .

Ah.

She loves Britain; the thought of losing him and being replaced by someone who looks like him yet does not act like him is  _ unbearable _ to imagine. It was like a part of her has been stripped away in a flash, and she doesn't know how to cover the most vulnerable sides of her without the help of her love.

_ It’s alright _ , they reassure France silently,  _ England has their secrets too _ .

_ Too many secrets _ .

Honestly, they should probably tell her at the right time.

But the time is not right— not yet, anyway.

They sigh,  _ Living is hard _ .

Living in another person’s body however, is harder.

_ Did Britain ever have an existential crisis _ ?

_ I don’t think so _ , they shake their head despondently.  _ They were aware of what they were; just a fusion, a vessel for three greater immortals _ .

Living is generally unpleasant; just from taking a few peeks of Britain’s (including England, Scotland, and Wales’) memories, living is both a mixture of the good and the bad, the clean and the dirty, the law-abiding and the corrupt. It is a melting pot of the positive or negative, sometimes the positive outweighing the negative or the negative outweighing the positive— there is rarely any balance on how people live their lives.

Unfortunately for them, their negative events were outweighing their positive events as of now.

They sigh; they decide that they do not like the way they are feeling with themself.

They want to feel  _ happy _ .

How does one make themselves happy?

They look through Britain’s memories, trying to find the fragments of life that made Britain happy, jovial, positive, not cursing his life all because he had been born with an independent mind in such a perilous time.

They are bombarded with frequent images of the way France looks at him, enamoured by the man.

They hum irritably; can  _ England _ live without the way France stares at him, like they had all the time in the world?

They sigh; sooner or later their relationship will deteriorate and break off.

She needs someone who is more open and more caring for her.

And besides, they didn’t get romance at all.

They pause.

Not  _ yet _ .

_ Maybe I just haven’t found the right one _ .

But they have all of Britain’s memories; why can’t they just make themself  _ like _ the person they like?

They  _ are _ in the same body, after all.

But the two of them have different personalities— and they can’t force themself to like someone they have no romantic feelings for because she likes the idea of  _ them _ .

_ England is right _ , they blankly stare at the ceiling, feeling dejected. They clench their bedsheets, furrowing their brows in frustration.  _ I only live to serve my purpose _ .

_ I’m not here to live; I have a job to do _ .

Then what’ll happen after they are done with the job?

Their grip on the bed sheets tighten, pursing their lips;  _ they do not know _ .

They are torn with continuing to live or becoming an empty vessel to the immortals.

Honestly? They guess that the second one is the better option—  _ no one _ is familiar with them, and they are not familiar with anyone. It’d be best to be turned back into an empty shell of a body once they complete their task in restoring their souls back in their bodies.

Someone knocks on the door. Startled, they lean backwards, their head hitting the wall. After a few muttered swears and rubbing the back of their head, they say, “Come in.”

Much to their surprise, it was the Netherlands entering their room. He was still wearing the same uniform they had yesterday, except that he had donned a dark cloak that covered most of his body. To be honest, the cloak made him stick out more than blend in. He was holding a bundle of clean clothes, putting them down on the floors.

“Since I’m the only person you’re familiar with here, I decided to give you your choice of clothes.” He states, “Well, there’s France, but you and her didn’t get along so well.”

They study the fresh set of clothes that their friend (are they allowed to call him ‘friend’? Is there a definition of a friend?) gave them; a dark-colored trench coat, a navy blue pinstripe suit, a fedora. The style of clothes were quite interesting to them, and they have been  _ itching _ to get out of this uniform that reeks of death. Besides, it covers their entire body and most of their face, so that would not be a problem.

“What happened to France after I told her to leave my room?” they ask; they already feel quite guilty that they have done that, after understanding her denial and desperate actions for the sake of being loved.

(Honestly, did England even  _ attempt _ to carry the relationship forward?)

“Well, when she left your room, she was pretty  _ livid _ ”, he answers, averting his gaze, “like a she-wolf. Said that she’s going to take a cig, I told her to take it outside, she does, and then she throws an entire fit at our door. Really surprised that the Nazis above us didn’t hear a peep. Speaking of which, I don’t think you heard it either, since Dunkirk observed that you get surprised at the loudest and most unprecedented sounds.”

“Ah… I didn’t mean to upset her.” They fold their arms on their lap. “I was pretty upset at her last night, too.”

“Don’t sweat it”, he tries to reach out to them with his arm, before remembering they don’t like physical contact and lowers it. “France is a person that usually denies everything that’s happened to her; you know, like a  _ woman _ would. Good thing we’re men, always accepting change as we do.” He laughs at his own joke.

They chuckle lightly, not understanding what was so funny about it. “Y-yes, we’re men.”

(Something inside of them  _ does not _ want to be called a man.)

“Anyways, France was still upset when she left this morning with Poland”, he continues, and they were slightly relieved at the change of topic.

“Where are they going, anyway?”

“To locate the areas that are loosely being watched by the Nazis; to see which waters are safe to traverse and bring you back home.”

_ Home _ ; wait, what did he mean by that? “That is… quite risky.” They’ll just have to ask the Netherlands later— they’re too busy thinking of ways to make their way to the Third Reich’s lair.

“No worries, they’re both an exceptional team.”

“Are they friends?”

“Yeah; they’ve been close since the Napoleonic Wars”, he cringes slightly, “too close.”

“But if I remember correctly, you were close with her during the Wars too, right?”

“Close?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I guess you could say that to a couple who had two one-night stands that resulted in two semi-failures.”

They tap a finger to their chin, deep in thought. “So that’s not the appropriate word for you and France back then.”

“Then what words do you think describe us perfectly?”

“What about extremely sexually close but emotionally distant?”

He blinks, “Well, I guess you can say that.”

“Did I go too far?”

The Netherlands shakes his head, awkwardly smiling. “N-no, I didn’t really think that you’ve observed Britain’s thousands of memories and drawn up your own conclusions.”

“Sorry, I was just thinking and then thinking got boring.”

He laughs, tilting his head. “That explains a lot.”

“By the way, why are you giving me new clothes? And what’s with the get-up?”

“For the first question, it was Hungary’s idea”, they raise a brow, and the Netherlands continues, “after seeing how angry France had been after she failed to lure you in with her feminine wiles, he decided to get you a fresh set of clothes so that France can stop pouring steam out of her ears. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Well, they already look better than my uniform; they smell nice too, rather than the smell of death that has been lingering in my body for far too long.” They smile at him, causing the Netherlands to jolt in surprise. “Thank you.”

His cheeks turn bright red, and he averts his gaze from them, “T-Thanks.”

“Will that be all?”

“W-Well, if you want to get rid of that smell of rancid acid, why don’t you head over to the showers?”

“Where can I find them?”

“You just need to take a right and head over to the glass doors.”

“Once again, I thank you.”

He chuckles, suddenly tense; why was he tense? “You’re welcome.”

He almost trips and falls when he tries walking out the door, his gaze lingering on them.

They blink in confusion— what was all that about?

* * *

They didn’t know that taking a shower was both enthralling  _ and _ fear-inducing at the same time; for some reason, they were scared of taking off their own clothes from their body, naked for the first time. The thought of just… stripping down to the bare skin made them shiver— they do not know why it made them feel tense or tingly, just the thought of touching their own bare body. Britain has done it before, so why couldn’t they too?

They stand, taking their clothes with them, their remaining eye downcast, walking to the way of the showers.

The shower room was quite simple and decent-looking, for something that was created in the sewers. It has a few stalls to the left and right. The stalls on the left one had amateurly blue paint coated on its walls, while stalls on the right one was coated with pink. It signifies the separation of one gender to another, obviously.

They blink, looking from left to right at the stalls.

They  _ know _ where they should be heading to— Britain is  _ male _ .

Why are they hesitating?

They suck in a breath; why are things like these labelled?

They’re  _ male _ .

They’re a  _ boy _ .

They’re a  _ man _ .

But they seem…  _ repulsed _ at the idea of being a boy themself.

They turn to the right stalls poorly painted with pink.

They bite their lip; they don’t feel like a girl either.

Then what  _ are _ they if they dislike identifying themselves with a single gender?

_ A vessel _ . They hear England’s demeaning voice again.

That’s what they are.

_ A vessel to three immortals _ .

That is their only purpose in life.

They take a deep breath, trying to calm themself.

That is their only purpose; being a vessel.

They should not have existed.

They hesitantly step to the males’ side of the showers, closing one of the stalls and putting their fresh batch of clothes above the stalls. They stare at their clothes; they want to get rid of them, but at the same time they do not want to, because that will mean coming face to face with their own body.

Why are they so hesitant with staring at their body?

Was it because… they were not the one who crafted their own body from ground up?

Yes, it had been England, Scotland, and Wales who had crafted this fused body (mostly England, since he was the one who suggested this in the first place), instead of them.

Perhaps that was why they were quite uncertain about seeing their body for the first time.

They shrug that thought away; they just need to get over this.

With slightly trembling hands, they unbutton their uniform first, slowly but surely. They take off their suit and shirt, their upper body already feeling cold and chilly. Then they remove their pants, which was an even more agonising and excruciating thing to remove. They inhale and exhale, trying to get them comfortable enough to clean their body up. After that, they’ll never have to set foot in the showers until after they reek of death once again.

Their body shakes as they finally get rid of their clothes, stripped down to their bare skin. They were once again reminded that they have not seen their reflection once (not even in memories, unfortunately), and this is only making them desire a mirror. They have milk-white skin, tainted by bruises and the color of blood. They gently take off the bandage from their broken hand, feeling the air hit their concealed fingers. They move the fingers of their broken hand, quite relieved it only hurts a little now.

They turn the valve of the shower on, and suddenly they are being sprayed with undeniably cold water. The temperature of the water forces them to draw back before they can be hit by another wave of freezing water.

_ It’s the middle of spring _ , they think, muttering out curses,  _ why is the water still so cold _ ?

They sigh; if they want to get out of here and not feel bad about the way their body was made, they should do their work fast. Their eyes meet with an almost-empty bottle of shampoo near the drainage; they curse whoever put the shampoo back there, bending down and feeling even more awkward with themself.

They pour in a substantial amount on their hand before beginning to run it down their scalp, feeling the bubbles form on top of their head. They put one hand over their face to find bubbles, and they smile; they regret getting distracted once shampoo gets caught in their eye, and they flinch and hiss in pain. They immediately rinse their hair and face with water, calming down once the pain is gone.

Much to their frustration, the soap had been near the shower’s drain too. They groan, collectively bending and picking it up. The cold water from the shower did not bother them anymore, like walking in a cold winter blizzard (not like they had ever experienced that before). They gulp at the sight of the bar of soap; they had to touch  _ every _ part of their body with this.

Obviously, they do not like it.

But they have no choice, if they have to smell clean. They stop the shower from running for a bit, clearly intent on focusing on this clearly harrowing task. They did not know whether it was sweat or cold water running down on their body, but they were nervous at scrubbing themselves clean.

They start to scrub their arms, up and down, up and down, their heart skipping a beat. They bite their lip as they cover their torso and armpits with lather, then at their legs, not missing anything except—

Their breath hitches, and they close their eyes for a moment.

Their heartbeat grows louder and faster, as they debate on whether or not cleaning themself  _ there _ .

They’re so useless; they can’t even clean themself without panicking.

They let out a shaky breath, before proceeding to clean themself, tears burning their eyes.

After a few more minutes of distress, they deem themself removed of any stench of death, and, quickly drawing a breath, turns the valves on, and the shower once again sprinkle cold water at them. They wash the soap clean first, removing the lather and suds, before cleaning them self up, avoiding that certain area as they rinse their body.

(Yes,  _ their  _ body.)

They let out a breath of relief as they finished showering, drying their body up with a towel that had just been sitting around the corner. They take their fresh set of clothes and wear them, feeling comfortable that the trenchcoat is there to cover their body, to cover their  _ shame _ .

(Why are they ashamed?)

They feel much better now, as they take their bundle of used clothes back to their room.

As they place their clothes near the mattress where they had slept, they are interrupted by their door opening.

“Ah, hello”, Belgium’s blonde hair peeks in their door, “you’re done taking a shower, right?”

“I am”, they nod, “why?”

He scratches his head, averting his golden eyes. “Nothing much; would you mind having breakfast with us, though?”

They blink, surprised. “Of course.”

“Can I call you Britain?”

Their eye subconsciously twitch, “Whatever you like, sir.”

He looks at them awkwardly, “Yeah, I didn’t think you’d call me sir either; and can you accompany me after we finish breakfast to the showers?”

“Yes.” They don’t really have the right to decline.

He gives him a small smile, of someone who was hiding something. “Thank you for your kindness; wanna go to the kitchen now? I cooked us some Belgian waffles— even if they  _ aren’t _ Belgian.”

“Yes, I feel quite hungry.” They stand, meeting with Belgium at the door.

“Also, do me a favor.”

“Hm?”

They turned their head to Belgium, and much to their surprise he was glaring at them. “ _ Don’t call me ‘sir’ _ .”

“I-I’m sorry”, they apologise, surprised with their anger. “Was it too formal—”

“No just…  _ don’t _ call me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

They promptly shut their mouth, the budding friendly energy snipped at the stalk.

The two of them enter the kitchen; the entire resistance building is empty, and the only person here seems to be Belgium.

Uncomfortable with the silence, they ask, “Where are the others?”

“Either scouting their own lands for potential rebels or mapping out the safest way to travel by sea to get to your own land.”

“Ah...” They sit on one of the stools, looking down. “I didn’t mean for the others to sacrifice their wellbeing just to see me go back home safely.”

They don’t even know if they are welcome at home.

Belgium scoffs, setting a plate of waffles near them. “Don’t feel guilty about that; instead, feel guilty at the fact that you scared us half to death with your disappearance.”

“I’m not the same as Britain.”

“Yeah, I know”, Belgium replies bluntly, “but you have his body and his memories, so you must have an  _ ounce _ of guilt of what happened.”

They take the fork being offered to them, staring at the waffles. “I suppose I have.” They take a bite out of the pastry, before they hum in the delight of the taste. “These are  _ delicious _ , Belgium!”

“Um, thanks.” He watches the vessel devour every last piece of the breakfast he made for them in one bite. He smiles, “You’re a big eater; unlike Britain.”

“He only ate in small bites, right?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really savor the food given to him; he only eats in small bites and pieces because he’s so used to being in big-shot and stingy dinners with other rich people. But you… you’re  _ way _ different from Britain.”

“So I’ve heard.”

He sighs, leaning on the kitchen’s counter. His blonde curls fall on his face, and he blows it away from his eyes. “It’s kinda quiet here without the others.”

“Do you feel lonely?”

“Well, I guess so”, he shrugs, tilting his head; they don't know why but they find the way he was sitting was pleasing. “But hey, at least I got you with me for the day; I’m actually very intrigued with you.”

“Intrigued with me?”

“Yes, it’s my first time interacting with a fusion’s new and independent soul in the first place.”

They feel disappointed; of course they are only using them to fuel their curiosity of the unknown. “Well then, what do you want to ask of me?”

His face grows serious and grim again, and he pushes his hair back to show his freckled face and piercing gold eyes. “It’s not about how you work and function; it’s something else.”

They blink, staring at him, unconsciously tapping their fork on the table and swinging their legs back and forth. “What?”

He takes a deep breath, fixing his hair— they found themself staring a little. His gold eyes stare back at their remaining grey one, and they avert their gaze, cheeks warm. Confused, he carries on the conversation. “I want to ask you a…  _ personal _ question, if you don’t mind.”

Their heartbeat subconsciously becomes slightly faster. “Oh? Do ask.”

He takes a deep breath, “How do you…  _ feel _ about your body?”

Out of all the questions they expected him to ask,  _ this _ was not one of them. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, lifting his arms up. “I mean, that body wasn’t made  _ for you _ . How do you feel about it?”

They stop thinking for a moment, their world far away.

It was… the first time someone had asked them something about their feelings.

But they didn’t know whether to tell the truth or to lie.

They have mixed feelings about this body; without this body, they will not have existed. But this body was created by people who were  _ not _ them, and therefore, this body felt  _ wrong _ , the wrong body to start existing in. Like something was not right with the way they created this vessel. It was… so  _ masculine _ , too masculine. They want to be indecipherable, to be covered with long clothes to hide their shame.

Why do they feel ashamed of themself?

They  _ hate _ it.

“You hate your body?” Belgium’s voice startles them, almost making them fall off the stool. “Oh, sorry for startling you— you’re a bit more volatile when reacting to loud or surprising noises.”

“How did you know I hate my body?” They ask, breath hitching.

“My friend… you were muttering about how your body was only created for the British Brothers.”

They bite their lip, “I’m… no good at keeping secrets.”

“It’s okay, you were literally just born yesterday, so give yourself a break.”

“But Belgium, I  _ can’t _ give myself a break”, they say with a hint of panic in their voice, “I have a  _ mission _ to complete;  _ two _ missions. And if I fail England, Scotland, and Wales… I’d be branded as a disappointment for life.”

“Mission? What mission?” He was already beside them, not touching them — thankfully — but their presence lingers.

“England, Scotland and Wales came to my dream yesterday”, they recount, “and told me that I need to bring them back from the Third Reich and to this body.” They bury their face in their hands. “Honestly, it’s kind of stressful.”

“Well, being assigned such a perilous mission is normally very stressful”, he supplies unhelpfully, but his presence has become a comfort. “But we need to get you home first.”

They immediately stand, “But I  _ need _ to get to the brothers first.”

Belgium is on his feet in a second. “Woah woah— don’t tell me you’re goin’ to go fuck shit up in Berlin.”

“Do I  _ have _ a choice?”

“You’re goin’ to  _ die _ before you get your hands on Reich.”

“I need to complete the mission!”

“You’re gon’ get yourself torn apart!”

“It’s  _ worth _ a try.”

“Then who’s going to save you when you’re captured— or  _ worse _ ?”

They wrung their hands, averting their gaze. They give no response.

Belgium sighs, “Look, your people… they  _ need _ you back there.”

They let go of their hands, “What’s the point of getting me home when I’ll be leaving all of you to die by the Reich’s hands?”

Belgium stares at them, befuddled. “... Wow, I didn’t know that you were  _ that _ naive.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’re- you’re like a baby, a  _ child _ ”, Belgium poorly implicates, “so that means that your thought process is…  _ full _ of naivety and being fully selfless towards others, like a child.”

“I have no idea on how to process that.”

“Er, yeah, it was quite a bad explanation.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore; and I’m not a child.”

Belgium lets out a small laugh, “Well, you  _ look _ like an adult with a vast archive of memories you can choose from, but you are also born yesterday and socially inexperienced with how the word works; so therefore, a  _ child _ .”

They frown, “I feel like you’re mocking me.”

Belgium smirks, one of his elbows propped up on the counter. “Ha, you sound like a child.”

“Am not.”

“Oh  _ please _ , Britain; you’re literally  _ pouting _ like a child.”

They flush in embarrassment. “It’s because you kept on pushing that I am a child— but I am not, seeing as that I am stuck in a grown man’s body.”

“Hey, when you get back to the British Isles, at least you can have quality time with yourself”, Belgium says comfortingly, “just relaxing as your cities try debating what to do during the war.”

“But the Netherlands and Dunkirk implied that they were having a hard time without Britain”, they reply, “but I don’t  _ know _ anything about battle plans.” They sigh, bowing their head. “You’re right; I  _ am _ inexperienced.”

Belgium stares at them (once again making them comfortable), before exhaling, putting his hand on his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry if I made you feel bad; I didn’t think that asking about the opinion of your body would result in another existential crisis.”

“It’s okay, it isn’t your fault I hate  _ this _ body.” They stare at him. “Why do you ask in the first place?”

Belgium goes silent for a moment, and they fiddle with their fingers, afraid that they have done something wrong. Then he sighs, taking a seat right beside them. “Well… I suppose since you — unintentionally — told me your answer to my question, it would be fair to tell you about mine.” He draws in a deep breath.

“It’s okay, take your time”, they say, putting a hand on his shoulder, gently.

“I… hate my body too.” He looks down, eyes shining. “That’s it.”

“I understand, and I won’t press you in for more details.” They inhale, “So we both hate our bodies.”

“Honestly, I should be grateful”, he says, gritting his teeth, “God gave me this body, and I ended up being ungrateful.”

“It isn’t your fault”, they reply, “it’s… no one’s fault.”

“How would you know?”

“I don’t; I only said that to comfort you.”

He sniffles, “Ha… what a great way to comfort me.”

“I’m sorry for not being able to comfort people properly.” They rub his shoulder, and he smiles.

“No, no, you’re good”, he replies with a smile, which makes their skin tingle. “You’re…  _ nice _ . Don’t tell anyone I said this but I prefer you over Britain.”

Their cheeks flush, “Just from a single conversation?”

He smirks, “A single conversation that says a lot about someone like you.”

They grow redder, “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“No; it’s a compliment.”

He doesn’t even press their faces together for the sake of their boundaries, but they feel like their soul is already leaving them for a better place.

Belgium is  _ illegally _ pretty.

Enough to make them feel embarrassed.

They shouldn’t be attracted to another man.

Are  _ they _ a man?

They groan inwardly.

* * *

France and Poland return a few hours later. They and Belgium have been making another fresh batch of Belgian waffles (he taught them how to make one, and it was quite exhilarating). After they set the waffles down the kitchen counter to be eaten, the vessel perks up at the sound of France and Poland laughing at some joke they made themselves, and they open the door, still hollering.

“I can’t believe Norway managed to  _ piss _ on the Third Reich”, Poland says between laughs, his voice deep and rich, “and got away with it!”

“You know the Scandinavians; impulsive as ever”, France replies, slapping Poland on the shoulder affectionately. 

The vessel in front of them tilts their head in confusion; they recognise that move as a way France flirts with others.

They narrow their eyes; is she flirting with Poland because Britain is not here?

But they are here!

“Ah,  _ Maman, Pologne _ , you’re back!” Belgium says cordially, and is greeted by cheek kisses (France) and a slow nod of head (Poland). “How did mapping the areas go?”

“Well, we ran into Norway”, she replies, squeezing Belgium’s cheeks affectionately. “Told us that the Baltic waters were being controlled by the Soviets, whilst the Scandinavian waters were being loosely controlled by the Nazis.”

“The Dutch and French waters have a  _ severely _ large amount of distributed Nazis”, Poland says, muttering a curse under his breath, “we don’t think that we can traverse  _ those _ waters safely.”

“Then I suppose you will make me traverse Scandinavian waters, then?” The three of them jump, remembering that Britain’s substitute was here, busily making shapes out of the leftover dough. To be honest, they were nervous; nervous about walking into a warzone, nervous about being onboard a ship, nervous about going  _ home _ . They don’t even know what the definition of ‘home’ is anyway, their feelings and the memories intermixing into a blob.

Poland clicks his tongue; he doesn’t like being interrupted. “I forgot that  _ it _ was here.”

The hand that was holding the spoon to pick out dough grips on the utensil tighter. “And ‘ _ it _ ’ has a name.” That was a lie.

(Seems that they already somewhat know how it feels like to experience someone as ‘demeaning’ as Britain is to their colonies.)

Poland ignores them to continue on talking. “Sweden is a neutral nation— if we manage to convince him to give us a ship, disguised as a supplier for the United Kingdom, then it will get home safely.”

_ It _ .

That pronoun sounds  _ demeaning _ .

With a frustrated sigh, they turn around and stare at Poland. “Can you  _ not _ call me an ‘ _ it _ ’?”

France conceals a chuckle behind one of her elbows; Poland stares at them, unconvinced; Belgium shakes his head slowly at them, seemingly dissuading them from a fight.

“Well, what should we call you?” France asks with a smirk— it’s obvious that she didn’t take last night well, and now is just focused on provoking them, as if they have any fault of France undressing last night. “You’re not Britain.”

They pause; they still didn’t think of a name. “I don’t know— just call me whatever you like, but I’m  _ not _ an ‘it’.”

“Then we’ll just call you Britain”, Belgium supplies, “it ain’t a problem—”

“Except it  _ is _ a problem, Belgium”, his mother says, full of indignance, “he’s  _ not _ Britain! He’s just a person masquerading as him!”

“I-I’m not masquerading!” They argue back, already fed up with how in denial France always is. “I was  _ born _ in this body; that’s not masquerading, that’s being  _ made _ !”

(They cringe once they are called a ‘he’.)

France huffs, “Whatever you are, you are still  _ at fault _ for Britain’s abduction!”

They stare at France blankly, before furrowing their brows. “I didn’t exist yet.”

“ _ You’re _ the body”, she raises a brow, as if their silence will prove her point. “It is  _ your _ job to protect them, remember?”

They open their mouth to rebut her statement, but a part of them partially agrees with what France is trying to say. “Well yes, I  _ am _ the body, but I was not the one who controls—”

“You were still  _ there _ , but you did not defeat the Third Reich”, she shakes her head, clicking her tongue, “now it is  _ you _ who is at fault for not protecting your masters.”

They stop talking, like they took a stab to the heart.

Belgium puts a hand on his mother’s shoulder, “Mother, you’re hurting him.”

“It hurt  _ me _ first”, she snarls, completely engulfed with rage. With a long, disruptive sigh, she walks out of the door, Poland following behind her.

A silence erupts between them and Belgium, before it is broken by the fusion’s body. “... Is Poland her rebound away from England?”

Belgium whips around to face them. “ _ You’re _ worried about that and not the way my mom treated you?”

“Why should I be?”

“You  _ should _ ! She treated you like you were an African, an Indian, or—”

“It’s okay”, They cut him off, an indifferent expression settled on their face. “I… think I’m used to it by now.”

“Now, why would you say such a preposterous thing?” Belgium sits beside them. “Quit broodin’ about whether you’re a human or not; you’re still my friend.”

They perk up. “Friend?”

“Well, what do you want us to be?”

“You’re the second friend I made here.” They give him another small smile, which lights a fire in Belgium. “Thank you.”

He laughs, “Yeah, you’re better than the  _ old _ Britain.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” They shake their head. “Besides, I’ll be leaving once I retrieve their souls.”

“You… are?” He sounds so surprised that they could not even fathom why.

They shrug. “Well, yes, I don’t belong here in this body.”

“But… you’re Britain’s soul; the real one.”

“Why do you care? I thought you’d want Britain back to continue the campaign against the Third Reich.”

“Of course I care about that, but you’re a  _ baby _ .”

They cross their arms. “I’m in an adult’s body.”

“Yeah, but if you were to take all the experiences, memories, knowledge and moves, you’re a baby.”

They sigh, a little too fondly, “Why are you like this?”

He smiles, which warms their heart a little too close to a flame. “‘Cause friends care for each other.”

“I… like the sound of that.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ll always vouch for you whenever my mom is being unreasonable.”

“B-but that’ll only get you on your mother’s bad side! Don’t do that for me!”

“Don’t worry, she loves all her kids”, he sighs, mystical, “wasn’t even disappointed that I surrendered, she just made sure if I was okay.”

“Britain thought she was disappointed in you”, he unhelpfully supplies.

“... Yep, definitely a child; Britain may be bluntly honest but you have absolutely  _ no _ brain-to-mouth filter.”

They panic, “Oh no, did I offend you? I’m sorry—”

“No, no, it’s fine”, he puts out a hand, “it’s honestly entertaining to be with you; you’re way more fun to be around with than Britain.”

“W-why?” They ask, still surprised.

“Well, Britain carries this air of status and wealth”, he answers, “and will look down on others that don’t fit with his standards. Even when he had been tutoring me back in my early years, he was cold and calculating with me.”

“And… how does that make me different?”

“Well, for starters, you’re a kid who has no brain-to-mouth filter”, he chuckles as they frown at the nickname again. “You think that you’re at the bottom of the food chain, so you don’t care about how you think of other people; you don’t care whether or not we’ve surrendered or are still trying to fight the war unopposed, without a Nazi over us.”

“Well, it’s more like I don’t think that I am an Immortal, so I have to treat you all like equals.”

“Even Britain’s colonies?”

They bite their lip, narrowing their eyes. “Should I?”

He laughs, “Now, now, don't get ahead of yourself.” He thinks for a moment, “But what should we call you, really?”

They smile, laughing. “Wow, you guys are hung up on giving me a name.”

“Because it’s important.”

“How is it important? A name is just a way to identify one’s self with their own kin and other people— besides, they didn’t choose their name at birth, so their name is not a choice.”

“You’re way brainier than I thought you’d be.”

“What I’m trying to say is: I don’t care about a name. It seems like a major complication for someone like me getting attached to every worldly possession I can get my hands on. If someone were to give me a name, I will be permanently attached to this world, and I won’t be willing to leave this world anymore.”

“But isn’t that a good thing? At least you can stay with us here.”

“Getting a name means that I am about to become a singular identity— but I am  _ not _ a singular entity, I am just a body.”

“You literally told me that this body gained a soul; gained  _ you _ . So it would be the most perfect time to give you a name.”

“Well, I don’t care about having a name.” They turn away, their dark brown curls bouncing over their covered eye. “I might as well be unidentifiable by a populace.”

“But… Why are you so nonchalant about not having a name? About  _ not having an identity _ ?”

They give him a bitter smile, “Because I would be indecipherable without an identity; to have one would mean that I am my own person.”

Belgium turns away from them, arms crossed and deep in thought. “You’re  _ very _ distinct from Britain— yes, you have a few matching traits here and there, but your sense of caring for everyone but  _ yourself _ and the absence of wanting an identity from yourself is making you way different from your master.  _ Way _ different from the rest of us. I bet you think differently from us too.”

“Having to think over my choices is strange”, they agree, “and before I could stop myself I already went over with my first choice.”

“And besides, you’re way too oblivious to go over things that make more sense than my mom  _ flirting with Poland _ .”

“The way she slapped his shoulder affectionately was a move she usually does to people she is in a relationship with.” They point out with a casual voice.

“... Why did you have to say that in a casual voice.”

“Do you want me to give the sentence more tone?”

“No thanks; I know that Britain is tone deaf.”

“What’s wrong with my voice, then?”

“It’s just…  _ uncanny _ that you’re telling me everything with a normal tone of voice and blank look; like you don’t care much about it.”

“Of course I care about it”, they retort, “I just don’t know how to make myself  _ feel _ the right way appropriately. She’s basically insulting me and England for being too close with Poland.”

“Cool down, cool down”, Belgium says, raising both of his hands to emphasise his sentence; they realise that they had been clenching their fists. “We don’t have any evidence she’s being sweet on our friend; no need to throw baseless accusations around.”

“I’m not accusing them of anything.”

“You’re angry.”

“For England’s sake.”

“What do you mean, ‘for England’s sake’? The reason why Britain is dating France is because all of the British brothers like her, right?”

“Scotland and Wales only like her as a friend.”

“Wait… but England—”

“England was the one who suggested another try at the relationship when France confessed she still liked him. The others weren’t as thrilled as they were before, but their brother was very overbearing.”

“Are you saying that only  _ England _ likes her?” He swears underneath his breath, indignant. “There’s a  _ reason _ why they broke off twice before.”

“Like the first time he manipulated her into having a child with him and then the last time where his eyes wandered?” They query.

“Well…  _ yes _ . I’ve kept on warning mom that pursuing a relationship with England will  _ never go _ anywhere.”

“Because he rarely makes an effort to make the relationship blossom when he’s not interested in her.”

“... Is England interested in her right now?”

They give him a look, “He only liked her because she liked him.”

“Then he feels nothing?”

“A tinge of romantic excitement, but he’s with France just because she can be his stress reliever.” Their eyes look around the room. “But even when he promises to stay true, his eyes still wander.”

“Are you saying—?”

“Yes, sometimes when France is angry or upset; he wanders around, looking for prostitutes he can have it with.”

Belgium doesn’t say anything for a moment; they believe that they had made him mad and were ready to apologise for it, but he exhales loudly. “That  _ fucking _ bupkis.”

“I understand that you’re angry, but let’s not get carried away.”

“Are you able to unfuse and put yourself back together?”

“Um… no, if I unfuse then I will disappear into nothingness until after my hosts fuse again. And besides, their bodies are all soulless so they cannot move to fuse back.”

“Aw, I was gonna ask you to unfuse so I can hit England with my own two fists”, he says, disappointed.

They stare for a while, before an idea appears in their head. “Well… why don’t you hit me?”

“What?”

“Pretend that I’m England and hit me to avenge your mother.”

“I am  _ not _ hitting a kid.”

“I’m  _ not _ a kid!”

He smirks, “You sure act like one.”

“When will you stop mocking me?”

“When you reach puberty.”

They groan, “I regret asking you to punch me to let go of your anger.”

“No, that was… actually a good call; I feel much better now.”

They perk up, their remaining grey eye on Belgium, feeling content with himself. “You are?”

“Yeah, are you?”

They stand, nodding. “Yes.”

* * *

They were internally screaming as Belgium brought them to this cramped, tight-spaced meeting room. The only light coming off was from a flickering and dying light bulb, desperately  _ trying _ to keep itself lit. They fixate on that, as there was nothing else in this room to look at anyway. Just like all the other rooms, the walls had a  _ terrible _ paint job; it looked like it was only splattered with grey paint and the painter called it a day. There was a long rectangular wooden table taking up over half of the room, and a few chairs around it. Due to the limited number of seats, they were forced to sit down on the floor.

(Their inner England/Britain is screaming, pride wounded at the thought of sitting on the floor.)

France was the one to lead the meeting. “All right everyone, since all of us are here for the very first time since the birth of our resistance, I believe that the news around Britain spread slowly but effectively to your ears.” Her blue eyes rest on them, seated at the floor right next to Belgium. They started to sweat at the eye contact she was making towards them.

She smiles at them pleasantly, but there is a lingering poison in her eyes. “I would like  _ all of you _ to meet the vessel of  _ Bretagne _ — remember: it’s not the Britain you know, and it just has his body.”

Everyone’s eyes shift to them, and they fiddle with their fingers uncomfortably. They can silently count to about twenty pairs of eyes staring at them, watching their every move.

“Dunkirk found them a day ago”, she says, still with that suspiciously sweet tone, “and even if it is not Britain, we must treat it respectfully, as it is here to serve as Britain’s current host of his body.”

They gulp and give everyone a small wave of their hand (they can see Belgium putting his face on his hands out of the corner of their eye). “Yes, hello, thank you for introducing me to these…  _ lovely _ people, France.”

“My pleasure,  _ darling _ ”, she pats them on the shoulder hardly, enough for them to flinch slightly; they still do not like body contact. “Now go run back to your friends, ‘cause we have a meeting to discuss.”

They keep their smile intact, rubbing their shoulders. “Of course.” They sit back down, exhaling softly.  _ That was a nightmare _ .

France’s attention is grappled back at the audience in front of her, “Now, as many of you know, the British Isles is without a leader. Luxembourg has given us letters of what is happening in Britain as of now; threats of air raids and bombings loom in the air and even an attempted  _ invasion _ of their land. Which was, fortunately, never put into action, since that would mean we would have lost our only independent ally in Europe.”

She was trying to rile them up for a response; well, she’s not getting one.

She continues, “Britain has been missing for a number of days after the Battle of Dunkirk, but now we might have the chance to bring back the British Isles’ beacon of hope; even if he is… not himself.”

They bite their lip.

“Even if Britain has been abducted by the Third Reich, we can still give this body back to them, and we will hope for the best that it actually  _ has _ experience with warfare and battle tactics.”

They gulp, fiddling with their fingers.

She inhales, before letting out a smile sweeter than the last. “Now that that’s settled, does anyone have any reports for the day?”

Poland stands, light brown hair shining under the dim light. “I and France managed to gain contact with Norway and Denmark—” He hides a small snort with a cough, “and they state that while the Nazis were all patrolling them intensely, the Scandinavian waters are loosely guarded by those Germans, unlike the Lowland countries and France’s waters.”

“Italy is getting possessive over the Mediterranean”, Hungary says, “rumors suggest that he had been maintaining a campaign against Greece.”

“And the Nazis started a horrific genocide of the Jews”, the Netherlands says, voice quiet and tone grim; he was gripping the edge of the tables, threatening to break a piece of them off. “Thousands of Jews were caught and then imprisoned in concentration camps, and they were mistreated, and many died due to how unsanitary those locations were.”

He bows his head, light blonde hair covering his eyes.

Everyone else remains silent, the air taut and rigid.

Even the fusion was uncomfortable, looking at every nook and cranny that does not have a grim-faced immortal.

France lets out a shaky breath, “I suppose this is the real life.”

“The real life where the Jews are being massacred?” Netherlands shoots back.

“This is an act of aggression”, France replies, “I do not condemn it, and we must put a stop to it immediately.”

“But  _ how _ ?” Belgium speaks up, inherently worried, “the United States and our other colonies are not able to respond to our requests, and the Germans and Italians have invaded our African colonies.”

“The Japanese Empire is becoming more intimidating in the East from what I received from the British Raj”, Paris replies, his eyes settling on Britain’s vessel before flitting away. “He  _ is _ a member of the Axis, so we should prepare ourselves for a fight in the Pacific.”

“If he lays a hand on the Dutch East Indies...” The Netherlands clenches his fist, indignant.

France gives him a look. “Calm down, you won’t be able to get ahold of your colonies when you can’t get ahold of your own land.”

He glares at France, before sighing. “You’re right; we need to be calculating about this.”

“Would be better if the United States just declared war on Germany already”, France mutters, which was heard by the vessel.

“But why would she do that? The Germans haven’t done anything to her and her lands personally.” They speak up; a haughty mistake, as everyone’s eyes are on him again. They gulp, but they continue, “Besides, I’m not sure if she felt threatened by him, despite the fact that he wiped the floor with Europe’s blood— if the United States declares war on Germany when he has done no such thing to her, then that would make her look like an aggressor.”

The Netherlands shrugs, “It’s right; she may have supplied us with battle weapons during the start of the war, but he didn’t do anything to provoke her.  _ Yet _ .”

“Well, we’re not going to wait until we hear that she’s entering the war— we’re  _ losing _ ”, France says, “we can’t wait for help because when we finally get our help it’s  _ too late _ , so we must do what we have to do now.”

“What do you suppose we do?” Hungary asks.

She turns to Britain’s body, “Sweden is neutral in this war, and luckily to him and us, their waters are free to our navy.”

“Our only problem on traversing the waters would be the Axis blockade, but if we get Sweden to navigate us...” Belgium has a light smile on his face. “But I do not know how we can bribe him.”

“We can worry about that later— we need to figure out how to travel to Scandinavia without the Nazis tailing on us.”

Hungary sighs. “It’s a long way from home.”

“We have to advance through German territory to get to Scandinavia”, the Netherlands pulls out a map, finger pointed on Dunkirk, “our safest route to Sweden would be to skirt Dunkirk and travel from any city.”

Belgium walks to his father to look at the map, pointing at one of the cities, “Then we get Britain to Antwerp.”

“Then we get to The Hague”, the Netherlands continues, tracing the path.

“However, if we’re going to get any closer to reaching my territory, we have to get through the  _ German _ ’s territory”, Denmark replies, her tone brisk. “We can guide ourselves from The Hague to Bremen,  _ through the sewers _ .”

Belgium tries to hide his disgust, “All for the greater good.”

“Then we get to Odense from Bremen”, Denmark continues, “I have given a letter to Sweden and — hopefully — a boat will be waiting for us to ship us to Gothenburg, Sweden.”

“And he will give us a ship straight to the United Kingdom”, they finish.

France clicks her tongue, exhaling. “ _ Exactly _ .” She smiles, “Now, who would like to volunteer on taking Britain’s vessel to Sweden?”

“I’ll go”, Belgium raises his hand.

“Me as well”, Netherlands volunteers.

“Since I have knowledge over my city, perhaps I will be able to escort Britain safely”, Denmark says. “I’ll be off to Odense, to see if Sweden confirmed my contact.”

“I’ll remain here”, France replies, “besides, I don’t want to keep  _ Bretagne _ company.”

They frown; they know the reason why she’s not going with them.

“I’d like to join as well”, Hungary intercedes, a small fascinated smile in his face, dark green eyes pinned on them. They look away, uncomfortable. “I had been a fusion with Austria once, but I have never experienced anything like…  _ this _ .”

His smile grows wider, which makes them slightly uncomfortable. They bite their lip, fiddling with their fingers, frowning at him.

“Well then, it’s settled”, France says, with a relieved sigh. “You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, if that’s alright.”

They furrow their brow,  _ Tomorrow morning _ ? They didn’t say anything though, as the room hums with agreement.

“Agreeable; we have to get it out of here as soon as possible”, Hungary replies calmly, standing, his dark green eyes on them.

Actually,  _ everyone’s _ eyes are on them.

They grip the folds of their trench coat, hating how everyone’s attention is on them;  _ how _ did Britain even  _ bear _ being the center of attention all the time? They felt slightly jealous of how diplomatic and charismatic Britain was;  _ he _ should be here.

But Britain’s  _ gone _ — England, Wales, and Scotland are abducted.

They  _ need _ to get to them.

Yet they didn’t know  _ how _ to talk about their concerns.

“Do you agree with the terms,  _ Bretagne _ …?” France asks, tapping on the table.

They regain their composure, clearing their throat. “Yes, of course; I would like to get back to the British Isles as soon as possible.”

She smiles, “Then everything is settled; go pack your bags, to whoever’s joining the party to get Britain back to the Isles. Pack whatever you need, especially medicine and weapons, since we all know that the journey to get those indecisive cities their immortal leader is perilous.”

For once, Britain’s body agrees.

* * *

“Hungary’s been staring at me like I’m a war criminal during the meeting”, they say to the Netherlands once they were in their room, sitting down on the mattress.

“Technically… we’re  _ all _ war criminals”, he replies, busily fixing his uniform. “Even Hungary.”

“The way he’d been staring at me was uncomfortable, though.”

“ _ Everyone _ is uncomfortable, so it’s a normal thing.” He sneaks one glance to their direction. “I’m pretty sure he’s just curious about  _ what _ you are.”

“Because he used to be a fusion with Austria.”

“Yeah, and like us, we’ve never seen anything like…  _ you _ .”

_ A mistake _ .

They sigh, looking up at him. “What are you even doing here in my room?”

“Because this was  _ my _ room before France forced me to bunk with Belgium.”

Their eyes widen, “Oh, I’m so sorry, do you need — ”

“No, you get to keep it”, he says with a peculiar sweetness in his voice. “Besides, we’re going back to the British Isles, and  _ you _ need an escort.”

“Why would I need an escort to an island where I have most of Britain’s memories in?”

The Netherlands looks at them, eyes a piercing blue. “Do you have the experience to navigate through those locations you deem explorable?”

“No, but I know how it felt like — ”

“That ain’t enough to get through the British Isles and you know it.”

“But — ”

“You  _ need _ an escort; you might get yourself killed if you aren’t too careful with navigating a country you’re unfamiliar with.”

“But I have all of Britain’s memories — ”

“Which won’t do jack shit if you set foot in there for the first time.”

“But I can map my own surroundings by myself — ”

“Will you be able to map your own surroundings when you get disoriented by a hundred people in the streets?”

They stop speaking for a moment, gears spinning. “I’m… familiar with the streets — ”

“ _ Britain _ is familiar with the streets,  _ you _ are not.” He corrects.

They groan, feeling frustrated at themself and the Netherlands. They cross their arms, looking down at the floor. “Who are you to tell me what I know about my own country?”

He sits down beside them, a little far away out of respect for boundaries. “I’m not doubting you, I’m just concerned for my friend’s health.”

They have the decency to be surprised by that. “You are?”

He laughs, his face tinted with red, “I am.”

“But why? Does my wellbeing concern you  _ that _ much?”

“Of course I’m concerned with you!” He raises his voice, which makes them slightly flinch at the volume. He clears his throat, “I just think that… you were raised at the wrong time with the wrong people.”

“‘Raise’?”

“Yeah, we’re your parents.” He smirks proudly.

They roll their eyes, embarrassed. “I assume Belgium’s jokes rubbed off on you too?”

“Well, my son  _ does _ have a point, you know; you’re just a child, despite having all of Britain’s memories and knowledge.”

They look up at him. “And does it feel like it was okay to treat me as one?”

“Pardon?”

“I understand that I’m not…  _ mature _ enough for the ‘real world’”, they play with the buttons of their trench coat, a sad look on their face, “but I can make my own decisions and think for myself.”

“I  _ know _ that you can think for yourself”, he retorts, “but the thing is: you are naive, that you’re even arguing and going against our own choices.”

“I just think that it was a horrible idea.”

“Look, no idea is horrible, or stupid, but we’re grasping at straws here”, he replies, “and the way you looked at the meeting, especially when France settled on tomorrow being the day we leave...”

“I don’t want to go back yet, I  _ need _ to get to the Third Reich — ”

“Do you think you’ll be able to win against the Third Reich?” He asks bluntly.

“No, but — ”

“Will you be able to win against him when he  _ dreadfully outclassed _ someone that was an expert in warfare?”

One of their hands reach their injured eye, still in an eyepatch. “... I don’t think so.”

“ _ Exactly _ ”, he nods, “you’re not ready yet; we need you to go back to the British Isles to reinstall order within your cities, are we clear?”

“Then I can go back here to retrieve my masters?”

“Sure,  _ when _ you come up with a good battle plan, okay?”

They smile, their only eye blinkering. “All right, I’ll try to do my best!”

He chuckles nervously, “You are a lively one.”

“Is that supposed to be bad?”

“Not really; just whenever you’re happy your voice rises.”

“It does?”

“Yeah.”

“Did I hurt your eardrums?”

“Well, you somewhat surprised me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you didn’t mean it.” He stares at their bandaged eye. “Do you remember how the Third Reich managed to take your — sorry — _Britain’s_ eye out?”

“I do remember a few things about the fight...” They say, tapping their chin as their remaining eye glows slightly in the dark; it never fails to amaze the Netherlands. “Well, Britain was letting go of thinking about his tacts during that fight, especially when the Third Reich had broken his hand. I can feel him… getting desperate, wishing to the gods that he was going to win. Then he miscalculated a move, and — ” They cringe, feeling the pain that Britain had felt when he lodged that dastardly weapon right on his eye.

“Are you alright?”

“I-I’m fine”, they shake their head, trying to shake off the momentary feelings of pain — but they cannot shake off the feeling of desperation Britain had felt. “Just imagine getting stabbed in the lining of your stomach, but this time the weapon is nearer to your brain and your sense of sight has been compromised. That’s what I—  _ Britain _ felt.”

He cringes at the description, “That  _ is _ horrible. Is your eye socket still open, though?”

“Hm? Well, I can feel it moving as if I still have an eye left, but because I have no eye it doesn’t open by itself anymore.”

“Was it stitched?”

“Don’t think so; besides I haven’t seen my reflection since I got here.”

“You don’t know what you look like?” He smirks, “Well, you’re very handsome, I’ll tell you.”

“Haha, you’re very funny, Netherlands.” They do actually snort at that, slightly flustered.

“What? Come on, it’s true. I guess you have  _ some _ of Britain’s charms.”

“Because I look like him?”

“And because you’re you.”

They bite their lip, averting their gaze, “Don’t be like that.”

“You like getting called handsome, don’t you?” he teases, poking them lightly.

Out of his surprise, they seem to slightly welcome that touch. “But you’re handsome too.”

He immediately stops laughing out of surprise, before chuckling. “That’s what people call me all the time, and yes, they are correct.” He winks at them. “Even you.”

That was enough to give them another small laugh to elicit from their mouth. “How come you still don’t have a wife just from how charming you are?”

His smile falters, his light blue eyes stopping. “Ah… hm. I dunno, maybe I’m just too fabulous.”

They chuckle, unaware of his falter. “Yes you are.”

“Too fabulous for a wife.”

They both laugh, but one is more forced than the other.

After a few seconds of hollering at a dead joke, the Netherlands says, “We’ll be leaving tomorrow evening, when Night’s blanket helps us move around the dark.”

They nod, “Yes, tomorrow night does sound suitable for our journey.”

“Are you nervous?”

They look up, surprised, “Where did you get that assumption from?”

He stares at them, and they follow his gaze to their fingers fiddling. “Ah, I see now.”

“It’s gonna be alright”, he says in a comforting tone, like they were a child. “We’re all nervous.”

“But you’ve all done this before.”

“... Yes we have, but that doesn’t mean shit.”

“I’m pretty sure it does— you  _ all _ have experiences when I only get Britain’s memories and how he had felt during a journey.”

“And what did Britain feel when he’s going on a life-risking journey?”

“Pride and excitement for the unknown”, they reply immediately, bluntly.

He doesn’t respond for a moment. “... But did he ever feel scared?”

“Of the barbarians, sure.”

“Not even anxious with how battered the road is or how treacherous the seas are?”

“Why should he when he will be able to master them all?” They raise a brow, “Don’t pretend you don’t feel pride once you complete a journey.”

He goes red, flustered. “I  _ do _ , but—”

“Are you feeling nervous too?”

“W-what do you mean?”

“Well, why’re you asking me if I was nervous or not in the first place?”

“Because you’ve been fiddling with your fingers ever since we got out of the meeting room.” He replies bluntly, exasperated.

“But is there  _ another _ reason?”

“No.”

“None?”

“ _ Nada _ , Britain; I was just concerned about you being anxious, that’s all.”

“Oh… sorry about trying to dig deeper.”

“Why?”

“Because… I thought someone else would be nervous too.”

His eyes widened, “Well… fine, I’m nervous too.”

“Oh come on, you were just taking pity on me.”

“Am not.” He looks at his wrist watch, “It’s past midnight; wanna call it a day and just sleep ‘til the morning?”

They laugh, which makes him even more flustered. “Yeah, I’m feeling tired.” They move with their injured hand, forgetting that it still hurts. They let out a squeak of pain as they put pressure on the injured hand, which did not go unnoticed by the Netherlands.

“Hey… are you alright?”

They chuckle, embarrassed, “It’s nothing; I forgot that my hands were still injured and I didn’t bother wrapping it up in a fresh set of bandages yet.”

“Do you want me to redress it?”

“W-well, if you are careful around me.”

He smirks, which did  _ nothing _ to help them, “But I  _ am _ careful, Britain.”

“Is that sarcasm or…?”

“... If you want it to be.”

“Just redress my fingers with bandages please; it might get swollen.”

He chuckles awkwardly, “Alright, alright. Felt weird when you said please though.”

“Is it wrong to say that?”

“Well, we’re not your seniors; not like ‘literally’, more business-y, y’know?”

“I know.”

“Just call me Netherlands.”

They smile, “All right, Netherlands.”

They could’ve sworn that he hid a smile underneath his hair, flustered. He looks up, “I’m just going to get bandages from the first aid kit, alright?”

They nod, “Alright.”

Once he leaves the room, their thoughts start to go into overdrive.

They start to reflect what had happened today, like waking up solemn, then the Netherlands came knocking on their door bringing a fresh batch of their clothes, and then their — figuratively — excruciating bath, then their talk with Belgium, the meeting, another casual conversation with the Netherlands. It was another fresh set of new memories, and they take care of them like it was a treasure of mankind.

Too bad that like the skies, memories move on to the backs of their mind overtime; even what had happened during the meeting was a blur, colorful splotches and scrambled feelings all around them. But they can remember how goosebumps prickle their skin when everyone looked at them with what seemed to be spider eyes, of how they were all calculating their moves and whatnot.

Then their memories impulsively go back to the time the Third Reich stabbed Britain in the eye, and once again, they cringe at the thought of that cursed weapon digging deep into his sklera; if Britain had been an ordinary person he would have died as he lodged that weapon into his brain— but immortals like Britain do not die from that. Instead, once they lose a part of their eye, their inner monster will dominate the body rather than their human side; it will be hard to retrieve an immortal’s sanity back, even when they lost something like an eye.

But luckily — or unluckily — for them, they were a  _ fusion _ , a barricade to the original immortals’ bodies that live deep inside of them.

They didn’t know whether to feel jealous or not.

But the memory of the Third Reich lodging his dagger into Britain’s eye makes them jump, even if they did not remember it well.

The way they see Britain’s memories, was like a story being told; an interactive book where they can jump from page to page like it was a library, an archive of memories. They feel what Britain feels because — undeniably — this was  _ their _ body that England, Scotland and Wales used. The three  _ used _ this body and now they were feeling what they had been feeling at the time.

They don’t know whether or not it was inherently good or bad.

But they feel like crap, stealing this body in the first place.

“Hey.” They squeak in surprise as they hear the door opening. The Netherlands was holding a gauze, bandages, a needle and a thread, and a syringe. “Oh, sorry for barging in so suddenly.”

“It’s okay”, they say, their eyes on the needle and the thread. Biting their lip, they look back up at the Netherlands. “Uh, what is the needle and thread for?”

“Isn’t it obvious? It’s for your eye, silly.”

“My eye?”

“Duh, it’s open, right? Belgium didn’t even bother to even stitch it!”

“Yes, I can still…  _ feel _ it moving, if you get what I mean.”

“That sounds bad.”

“No, it’s kind of like whenever I move my only good eye I feel it moving the same direction as my eye; it doesn’t really open now because I have  _ no _ eyeball for it to be carried like a support beam.”

“Are you comfortable with me redressing your bandages?”

Their skin prickles at the thought of someone touching them. “Slightly.”

“Still uncomfortable?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“It’s fine”, he kneels, “do you want to redress the bandages yourself?”

“Yes please.” They wordlessly take the gauze and bandages from him, and they start to dress their bandages up, slowly and carefully, their fingers easing around together. After a few minutes of adjusting and readjusting (with a few minor groans of frustration here and there), they finish.

“You’re good”, he says with a smile.

“Learned from Britain”, they reply, almost proudly.

“Want me to stitch your eye?”

They gulp, “Sure.”

He picks up the syringe carefully, and they lean back against the wall, trying to calm their breathing; it was embarrassing, to be afraid of a pointy thing, especially when they’re in a body of an immortal that is — allegedly — not afraid of everything.

“Shit, you’re shaking a lot”, he states, his hand softly touching their arm; they shiver and almost yank away from him before stopping themself. Their remaining grey eye watches as the syringe slowly makes contact with their skin—

_ STOP _ .

A voice makes them gasp and shake, and the Netherlands leans back.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

They put their hands on their face, sweating (even when the room was cool), panting out of surprise from that voice. “I-I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong? Are you scared of the syringe?”

“N-no”, they stammer, shaking their head, “it’s something else.”

“Which is?”

They blink multiple times, trying to remember the voice— it had rattled their brain and made their ears ring non-stop, so it should not be that hard to remember what the words had been. “I heard… a voice telling me to stop.”

“To stop? Maybe you’re hearing things now.”

“I had a dream of England, Scotland, and Wales reaching out to me last two nights ago; perhaps I am not hearing things.”

“Then maybe it was one of them who talked to you, then.”

“Why?”

As if the three of them heard their vessel ask, another voice answers, the sound of a loudspeaker or thunder rumbling in the skies.

_ Do _ not _ stitch your eye up _ .

They gasp, and the Netherlands puts the syringe down.

“Was that another instance of a voice in your head or you just don’t really like needles?”

“It’s another message.”

“What did they say?”

“They told me not to stitch my eye up.”

“Why? It might get infected, yanno.”

_ Where do you think will we enter back into our bodies, huh _ ?

They recounted what England just told to the Netherlands, and the Netherlands can’t help but snort. “They  _ need _ an opening for them to repossess a body? That’s…  _ strange _ .” He tries to muffle his laughter, but he melts into a puddle, hollering.

_ The entryway is important so that our souls can enter the body without tearing the skin apart even more _ .

“Holy Christ”, the Netherlands says, smoothing his hair back once they recount the entire thing again. “Being a fusion is complicated.”

“Being in the body of a fusion is complicated, yes”, they reply a little too seriously. “It is too complicated to comprehend at first.”

“But you managed to endure it.”

They smile slightly. “Yes, I suppose.”

“I guess you wouldn't like your eye to be stitched?”

“Well, they don’t want it to be stitched.” But it bugged them like  _ hell _ .

“Then I suggest you replace your bandages everyday.”

“I’ll do that.”

The Netherlands stands, gathering all of the medical supplies, nodding at them. “Well, goodnight, and see you tomorrow; we need energy to keep us awake at night.”

“Sleep tight, Netherlands.”

They watch the door close, with a solemn expression on their face.

Why do they have a solemn expression on their face?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the entire one-shot was supposed to only have three parts, but when this part started getting lengthy, i had to split it into two lol.


	3. PART III: JOURNEY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title is self-explanatory.  
>  **TRIGGER WARNING: ABUSE, DYSPHORIA**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today, this December 13, marks the 83rd year when the Rape of Nanjing, or the Nanjing massacre happened-- in which the Imperial Japanese Army murdered countless people and raped women between the numbers of 20 000 to 80 000. The death toll ranges from 200 000 to 300 000. May they all rest in peace.

**PART III: JOURNEY**

_“I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel...”_

_Frankenstein, Mary Shelley_

They have another dream— or a message from their hosts this night. They were back at the brightly lit void again, warm and cool colors bouncing from left to right. Like a child, their eyes follow each of the lights with a fascinated expression. They snap out of their child-like entrance when they hear footsteps. They turn around to be met with England, Scotland, and Wales, looking terribly exhausted.

“It took us a day to reach you”, England says with a tone that sounds like it was _their_ fault that it had been hard for the three to reach them. “You should thank us that we have not abandoned you yet.”

“Thank you...” They say reluctantly, averting their gaze from England.

“Don’t look away from me.”

“Sorry.” Their eyes come back to staring at England.

“Don’t even _dare_ apologize to us while having _our_ mouth.”

They press their lips together, resisting the urge to apologize.

Scotland touches England’s shoulder, “England, don’t be too harsh on it.”

“Oh?” England scoffs, “Why can’t I?”

“Because they might not save us with that attitude of yours.”

They perk up, “I’d still save you; it’s my job, after all.”

“You’re lucky it’s still dependent on us.”

“And it _stays_ that way.” England swivels around to confront them, making them jump. “Don’t even _think_ about betraying us; we’re the reason you exist.”

They gulp, “I would never consider that.”

“England, let me take it from here; you are tired”, Scotland pushes England back (his brother mutters a few profanities here and there), stepping forward to face the soul occupying their body. The orange-haired man was tall, tall enough for them to crane their neck upwards. “I apologize about him, he was the victim of the Third Reich’s mind games today.”

“What happened to him?” They ask, curious and concerned.

“I _do not_ need your pity”, England snaps, whilst Wales was trying to comfort him but failing.

Scotland shrugs, “It was a very unpleasant day for us. How about you, how’s your day been?”

They perk up, surprised that he even asked such a casual question. “My day has been fine; I made friends with the Netherlands and Belgium, but...” They look down, biting their lip.

“But what?” Scotland presses them on gently.

“Well… it’s about France.”

Like a snake, England snaps his head back to him with a furious look on his face. “What did you do?”

Oh right; England wants to be on France's good side for the entirety of this relationship. “N-nothing much.”

“‘Nothing much’? What did you do with France? Did you put our relationship in jeopardy?” He was seething at this point, red in the face.

“England, calm down”, Wales says, “it is still not familiar with your relationship with France yet!”

“What happened between you and France?” Scotland asks in a calm voice, in contrast to England losing his temper over such a menial thing.

They already feel like an outcast with the members of their own family.

They sigh; they have to tell the truth. “We actually met last night; she asked me if it was true that I was not Britain.”

Scotland’s face looks slightly interested. “What did you say?”

“The truth, that I was not the man she loves.”

“You could’ve _lied_ ”, England replies, “then she wouldn’t have been angry at us.”

“England, she’s only angry at me”, they reply, “I do not think she would be angry at you.”

“England, don’t flatter yourself”, his brother says with a smirk. He turns back to the stray soul. “Then what happened next?”

They feel their heart racing when they remember an image of France undressing; it made them angry, devastated, and hurt. They did not feel an ounce of attraction for a woman undressing— they just feel like the world was suffocating them, hands on their neck. Those same hands are suffocating them now, recollecting that memory. “Well, France realized I was upset, so she came to my room, gave me a bowl of soup, and started undressing while I had been distracted.”

England, Scotland, and Wales stare at them.

England was the first to speak, already interested. “And what did you tell her?”

They gulp, already predicting his outburst. “I… told her to get out of my room.”

His eye twitches, and Scotland and Wales glance at each other with worry etched into their faces. “Why did you do that?”

They shake their head, gulping. “I just wasn’t interested.”

“‘Wasn’t interested’? Are you _serious_ ?” He seethes, hands balled into fists as he grits his teeth. “That was an _offer of a lifetime_ , and you turned yourself away?”

“She was in denial and was desperate”, they say with a straight face, “even when I am comfortable with that kind of thing, I simply cannot take advantage of the state she was in.”

“Taking advantage? She was giving herself to you!”

“She still believed that I was still you, so I would be lying to the both of us.”

( _Like you_.)

“Then you could’ve used her! I am sure that you had a knot of stress in there waiting to be untangled after a night with France!”

“I had been stressed, but I am not comfortable with taking advantage of someone’s body like that.”

“Why would you be uncomfortable with something a _man_ should be comfortable with?”

They stop, those words like an arrow to the heart. “I… It just looks uncomfortable, judging from your memories.”

England stops, before sighing, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? You are _useless_.”

“I’m sorry if you think that way of me.” They try not letting that insult get under their skin, but it does, and they rub their arms. “But I promise to get you back; we just have to get back to the British Isles for further planning.”

England stares at them with a surprised expression. “ _What_?”

_Uh-oh_. “The others suggested I go back to London to escape the main warzone here for the meantime; we already mapped out routes and such.”

“You’re _leaving us here_ ?” England demands, looming over them like a demon over their recent victim. He was red in the face, incredibly mad. “Are you _that_ selfish to leave us stuck in that weapon?”

“I-it’s not like that, England”, they stammer, tense, “the others just want me to go back sooner or later so that I can ‘inspire’ the currently distressed populace in your lands.”

“Oh, so you want to _lead_ them now, hm? What about your only purpose? Do you believe you are better than that mission?”

“O-of course not”, they reply, “I’ll come back for you three as soon as I have the numbers to defeat him.”

“You didn’t even deny the fact that you want to lead them.”

“N-no, of course not! I don’t even know how to lead the resistance, and everyone else ignores me because I do not have the sense of authority; unlike you.”

“Sooner or later, you will betray us, leave us here to die.” He glares at them, a deep and fiery hate in his eyes; it was enough to make them move backwards, intimidated. “I won’t let that happen.”

“It will not happen”, they reply, “I’d never turn my backs on all of you— you need my help and I am here to give it, although as much as it pains me to say this, it is not the right time yet.”

“It is right”, Scotland speaks up, scratching his head, “we need someone back in the British Isles to fill in our vacancies, and since it is in our body, we all have no choice but to make it stand in for us.”

“Agreed”, Wales replies, “it is too risky for them to break into the Third Reich’s place and take us underneath his nose; the weapon containing all of us is always heavily guarded.”

“Which means that we need to weaken the Nazis first”, Scotland continues with a smile.

“Not possible”, England scoffs, turning away.

“Awww, what happened to you my dear brother? A single mind game with the Third Reich enough to soil your pants?” Scotland laughs as England hums angrily.

“It’s not that”, he snaps, his dark red eyes on them again, “I just have a hard time believing that _that renegade_ would weaken the Nazis.”

“Well, I won’t be able to do it alone”, they supply, “we need allies.”

“Which is why they’re going back to Britain, dumbass.” He ruffles his brother’s hair affectionately, making him huff out of embarrassment.

“... Fine”, he looks back at them, calmer this time. “We’ll keep the Third Reich’s mind off of Britain while you find a way back to our fusion’s namesake.”

They smile, “Thank you for your kindness, England.”

He scoffs, “It is not kindness, it is to see whether or not you are useful.”

They look away, “I will not let all of you down.”

“Do not stitch your eye up too; do you want us to enter through another stab wound?”

“Of course not.”

“Our energies are diminishing”, Scotland states with a slightly disappointed look on his face, “we need to get going.”

“Understandable; I believe I am also about to wake up at any moment.”

England huffs, “You should remind yourself multiple times that the only reason why you started existing is because we stopped existing ourselves.”

A wall of light engulfs their three hosts;

They wake up with a gasp, clutching their bedsheets almost instinctively. After a few minutes of calming themself down, they think back to what England had said.

_You should remind yourself multiple times that the only reason why you started existing is because we stopped existing_.

And from a viewpoint, he was right.

* * *

“Hey Britain”, Belgium greets them a good morning as they trudge to the kitchen, “did you sleep well?”

“I did”, they reply, “how about you?”

He smiles, “I slept like a baby.”

They laugh, “Lucky you.” They sit on a stool, right between Poland and France.

They immediately wake themself up.

_Between Poland and France_.

“Ah, good morning _Brytania_ ”, Poland says gruffly with a hidden frustration.

“Yes, good morning _Bretagne_ ”, France says with a groan, crossing her arms.

The two seem to be frustrated at them interrupting their conversation.

Thank god they did not tell England about them; he would’ve exploded.

But their mind was on something else; they _really_ needed to get a new name; that was the name of a dead person.

Yet their attention diverts from that when Belgium gives them a plate of Belgian waffles. Mouth watering, they take a bite out of the food given to them. “Belgium, you still know how to make bangin’ waffles.”

He lets out a deep breath, obviously flattered. “Why thank you.”

“You should be a baker or something; people will _love_ what you make.”

“Really? Thanks— maybe after the war is over.”

“After we _win_ this war”, France unhelpfully butts in.

Belgium turns his head around to face his mother, “Mom, don’t emphasize the ‘after’; it’s making me anxious of whether or not we win this war.”

“We will win this war”, they reassure the people in the kitchen, “I’m making sure of it.”

“It feels less true and comforting when the reassurance of the war tipping its scales to our side when _it_ talks about winning”, Poland mutters under his breath.

They turn to his direction, surprising him, “I heard that.”

Poland scoffs, rolling his eyes. “So?”

“What did I ever do to make you feel uncomfortable around me?”

“The same way where we never did anything to you yet you feel uncomfortable around us.”

“You’re _strangers_ ; I wouldn’t get to know you unless we cross paths.”

“Don’t you have Britain’s memories in your mind? So technically, we’re not supposed to be strangers to you.”

“Well Britain may not view you as strangers, but _I_ do, since I am still unfamiliar with how you all act.”

“You can literally decipher our personalities from a dozen memories.”

They sigh, rolling their eyes as they go back to eating their breakfast. “You’re ridiculous.”

Poland laughs, “No, a fusion without its hosts is ridiculous! I can’t believe it!”

“You’re ridiculous because you can’t seem to wrap your head over the concept of unfamiliar and familiar strangers.” They have to say it in the bluntest way possible, so that he could take a hint.

He immediately stops laughing, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

They put their fork down, looking at Poland straight in the eye. “Remember back in the old days where your parents kept talking about the Russian and Austrian Empires and the Kingdom of Prussia? When did you four meet for the first time, in person?”

“During the Third Partition”, he says in a calm yet shaky voice, aware of the painful memories it brought. “They were _worse_ than what I had made them out to be.”

“You only heard of them through rumors, right?” They ask, still eating their breakfast casually.

“Yes, my parents were distressed about the partitions happening, and they hurl insults about the trifecta here and there.” He sucks in a breath, before glaring at them, “Why the hell do you want to know?”

“Well, your first impression of the Russian and Austrian Empires and Prussia was based on other people’s opinions and impressions, correct?”

“Yes? What are you getting at?”

“Well that’s the same thing for me and my relationships around here”, they say, already finished with their meal, once again looking back at Poland, “I only see them through memories — or rumors — and so I gather my first impressions from them. The reason why I am not familiar with all of you yet is because I have not seen what you are capable of myself; all of my memories were like adjectives thrown to one person.”

Poland frowns, “So?”

“So I have perfect reason to be uncomfortable or unfamiliar around you; do _you_ have one?”

“W-well of course I have a reason!” He sputters, “I don’t know you either!”

They tilt their head upwards for a moment, before letting out a noise of realization, “Oh… then I suppose we can both reflect on what we have learned today.”

“ _You_ were the one who spouted all of that nonsense out from your mouth!”

“Because you believe that the memories I have can be used to the advantage of talking to all of you socially.”

“You’re a know-it-all!”

“I just learned the same thing you did just now; I tend to overshare my thought process.” They say with a straight face, the corners of their lips turning slightly upward.

(It’s more of an awkward smile than anything, really.)

“And people here think that you have the mentality of a child!”

“There are only _two_ people in the resistance who would ever think of me as a child.” They pointedly look at Belgium, who smiles nervously. They turn back to Poland with a blank stare. “But I am a grown person capable of making my own decisions.”

He shakes his head, light brown hair swaying, “You are so… _strange_.”

They blink, processing that statement, “Am I?”

“Yes!” Poland stands, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some… _errands_ to do.”

_I am too confused by your existence_.

They walk out the door, muttering Polish swears; they wonder if all of them were reserved for them.

They stare back at Belgium and France, bamboozled expressions on their faces. “What did I do?”

Belgium hums, averting his gaze, “You were just too… _blunt_ with your friend.”

“He’s not my friend.”

“Me and my mom’s friend.”

“You are the reason why I dislike honest people”, France huffs, “you speak your minds way too many times; you are blunt and condescending; you criticize the smallest things, and most of all, people like you give others unneeded reality checks.”

“I didn’t give him a reality check, I just wanted to make him change his perspective a little”, they retort, “and why do you hate honest people that much? Isn’t that key to a healthy relationship?”

“Yes it is, but I’d rather hear honesty from my partner rather than the likes of _you_.” She examines her nails like she did something.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t like it when anyone in particular tells you something brutally honest?”

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“When did you even start hating honest people?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just asking.”

She shrugs, “I don’t know… but honesty just bugs the hell out of me.”

They raise a brow, “Because you have never been honest to yourself in the first place?”

She perks up, surprised.

Belgium turns to look at them, shaking his head, trying to dissuade them from what’s going to happen.

But deep inside, they know that they were right; they’ve seen it all in the memories where Britain and France were together.

She turns to glare at them; honestly, they were never intimidated by her glare, not when she threw too many towards them. They have a suspicion that she despises them, but they have no confirmation yet. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said that maybe the reason why you hate honest people is because you yourself were never honest in the first place.”

Belgium speaks up before France can retort. “Mother, Dunkirk told me to—”

“I _am_ honest to myself”, she says, scoffing, “you don’t get to play mind games with me.”

“I’m not; I’m just warning you about turning your back from honesty, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because someone you’re close to might not be as honest or as truthful as you think.”

She snorts, “Are you saying that Britain is—”

“Okay, that’s enough”, Belgium says with a voice that _demands_ authority, glaring at the two of them. “This has gone too _far_.”

“I was just giving her advice.”

“What a lousy advice that had been, then.”

“It’s to prepare you for every relationship you get emotionally invested and attached in.”

“I do not need you to guide me like you are my father.”

“I just wanted to warn you that not everything bad is good and vice versa.”

“Shut up.”

They sigh, fixing their hair. “Alright.”

France stands, their shoes clicking on the stone floors. “I’ll get going now.” She exists in the kitchen.

Belgium shakes his head at them, “You’re far too honest for your own good.” He also leaves them alone in the kitchen, following his mother.

They stare at him right before he leaves.

They blink, looking down.

Did they really go too far?

_This is why I do not like honest people_.

They sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose.

They just thought that it was for France’s own good, to prepare her for the biggest confession in a lifetime.

But when will they have the courage to tell her about England?

Probably never.

* * *

The Netherlands pours water into the dozen — clean — bottles lying around the floors. Everyone was muttering to themselves, readying their clothes and disguises, first aid kits and water bottles, satchels and food bags to the volunteers of bringing them back to Britain.

They did not want to call it home yet; after all, they’ve never set foot into the Isles, and even if it is their literal home, will it _feel_ like they are home?

They didn’t know yet.

Did the resistance’s hideout feel like home?

Not really; there were too many people, too many _strangers_. Their bed felt hard, the walls felt cold, the floors felt rough underneath their feet. But they did make friends here, and they had tasted the best food, unlike any other.

But it was beaten by the flow of overwhelming emotion and anxiety; every time they are at a crowded place or area, they feel nervous, unable to talk or move unless someone tells them to. They felt _alone_ even when they were with people.

They do not want to feel _that_ kind of alone.

So they were both relieved and upset of leaving the only home they knew.

They promised to England, Scotland and Wales that they will come back for them, but not now at the moment; the rest of the people are too preoccupied with bringing them back to Britain, back to where the brothers’ memories had all begun.

They were quite nervous returning (or coming) to the Isles; especially face-to-face with the British cities, who they believe unable to comprehend that such a thing like them existed.

They grimace as a scene enters their mind; a scene of the cities gasping and denying that ‘Britain’ is still alive and mistaking them for their main leader.

They prepare a dozen of scenarios and imagine all of the repetitive queries they are about to hear, and the predicted answers that they will have to fire back towards them.

_God_ , just from their memories, they are about to have a hard time with those cities.

And judging from their memories, they might be even worse in real life.

They don’t even want to think about it.

“Oi, you there with the dark brown hair and a solemn expression on your face!” the Netherlands flings a satchel towards them, and they barely catch it on time. “Your satchel; filled with first aid, a few packs of food, water bottles, sleeping bag, and a fresh set of clothes. You’re welcome.”

They smile, nodding. “Thank you.”

They lean back into the wall, becoming imperceptible by the crowd who was busily handing out satchels and bags of supplies to those who volunteered to go on this trip.

It was a madhouse here.

Lots of people are murmuring and talking, a few hollering to themselves, some even _bumping_ into them as they busily examine the contents of the bag… needless to say, it was both overwhelming and frustrating.

They groan, uncomfortable with the booming energy in the room. Their ears were ringing, like their hearing was way more sound.

It was slightly unbearable.

“Hey”, Belgium’s voice finds its way through their ears, “you alright? You seemed a bit… _overwhelmed_.”

They gulp, “I’m fine; just checking to see if I have enough rations to last a day out there.” They chuckle lightly, trying to hide how they’re internally cringing.

_Is this how people make jokes_?

It seems… _unfunny_.

He smiles, “S’all good, I’ve been counting and solving math problems in my head when they gave me this.” He frowns at the bag, “This can only last for three days if I take everything for granted, or a week and a half if I decided to ration my food out.”

“What’ll happen if we run out of supplies?”

He shrugs, “Then we steal; it’s not like we don’t have any choice.”

They raise a brow, “But don’t we have another choice when we go hungry?”

“Besides eating other people? … No.”

They tilt their head, “Eating other people?”

Belgium stares at them, “Don’t tell me that Britain’s memories don’t show the man himself eatin’ a few mortals to stay young and handsome?”

“I can summon a memory at will or whenever my head is empty of thoughts”, they say, “but I have encountered a memory of that, although I don’t want to see that again.”

He chuckles, “Chicken.”

“I just feel uncomfortable seeing that too, is all.”

“Yeah, alright, I believe you; you’ll get used to it soon.”

“Please don’t remind me that this is inevitable.”

“I mean, even when you yourself do not have the desire of having a sense of self, you still _have_ to look your best.”

They roll their eyes, “I know. When are we leaving?”

“What time is it?”

“Ask someone with a watch.”

He wanders around the room, before asking Denmark — who has a wristwatch — what time it is; when he gets his answer he marches back casually towards them. “It’s eight in the evening.”

“What time will we be leaving?”

“Midnight; the darkest hour. The darkness will completely shroud us, get us through the various Nazis standing in our way.”

“When do you think will we be able to get to Britain?”

“If there are no further delays, a few days or so; if there are, probably a few weeks, a month, at most.”

Their eyes widen, “A _month_? I can’t wait for that! I—”

“That’s why i said _if_ , my friend”, he says exasperatedly, “do not be too shocked.”

They breathe in and out, calming down a little, “My apologies, England, Scotland, and Wales let me come back to the Isles with the promise of coming back for them— which I intend to keep.”

“And you can still keep that promise. If you go out there to the Third Reich’s quarters, you are going to have a hard time dealing with _him_. And you are defenseless too; just because you have all the memories and physique of Britain does not mean that you have the power to defeat that man. Remember what had happened the last time Britain tried to fight him all by himself?”

They have flashes of memories where Britain was being beaten by the Third Reich, over and over again; he had lost his composure and grew impulsive and desperate as the fight continued, turning the tide of the battle towards that bastard, to the point he had taken out his eye.

Then they remembered that Britain shot him through the heart—

And the wound healed _all by itself_.

“Belgium?” They tug on his sleeves, that memory stuck in their head.

“Hm?”

“Can immortals heal after a deadly shot through the heart?”

He raises a brow. “No! We immortals have limitations towards our power and immortality too; we are not immune to dying, and we certainly are not immune to _lead poisoning_.”

“Then how did the Third Reich magically heal himself after I shot him through the heart?”

Belgium looks at them like they were on fire. “He _what_?”

“He healed himself after that fatal shot whizzed past through him!”

“H-how is that even _possible_?”

“Are you saying that the Third Reich managed to unlock something that was supposed to be a secret after a long time?”

“There has to be _some_ explanation of how that happened”, Belgium says, “maybe Britain saw it in an exaggerated view? Like he just missed? Which is strange for Britain, because he never misses—”

“ _No_ , that memory was accurate”, they say, head pounding as they relive the memory, “as Britain’s souls are being sucked out, I — _he_ — shot Reich through the heart. I can even see a bullet hole at the front— but he just took a second to look stunned _before_ winning their fight, taking their souls as his winning gift.”

“Then- then-” Belgium swears under his breath, “we are done for.”

They stare at his defeated face, and they decide they do not want him to feel hopeless. “Hey, no need to get upset; we might be able to find a way to make this so-called indestructible Third Reich destructible.”

“But how?”

“We need to find a way first; perhaps study a few sources of immortals from local libraries.”

“They already have general information of what we need to know about ourselves”, he says, huffing, “I don’t think they can provide us any other information.”

“But the British brothers implied they knew about the consequences of separating souls from a fusion”, they state, “so perhaps they have something underneath a library.”

He shrugs, “Perhaps we can learn more about us immortals when we get there.”

“I might dig up something from my memories if I concentrate hard”, they yawn, “but that usually takes a lot of energy, especially when I dive deeper into the past.”

“Understandable, maybe you can dig more into Britain’s memories once you are well rested.”

They chuckle, “Perhaps I should do that.”

“Maybe we should eat first; so that we have enough energy to start the dark morning with.”

“Yes, I believe that we should be in our best shape.”

He smiles, “Come on, Hungary makes the best dishes in town.”

“In the resistance?”

He laughs, “Don’t be a smartass.”

They smirk, “I’m not being one.”

“Promise?”

“It is _more_ than a promise.”

* * *

Dinner on the third day was way better than dinner on both the first and second days; there were still people clogging the path towards the food, and the fact that people accidentally touched them, but it was less overwhelming than what they had experienced earlier.

They blink.

They were only cooped up here for _three days_? Time either flies fast or slow, depending on someone else’s point of view. But damn, it sure did fly past, like birds migrating to the south as winter rolls in the north.

“I don’t believe that I’m leaving so soon”, they tell Belgium, who was busily having a debate whether to take the _Halászlé_ or to take a portion of a _lángos_.

He temporarily snaps out of his food frenzy to look at them, “What?”

“It’s just that… I’ve only been here for three days, and now I’m leaving.” They pick out a _Főzelék_ , desiring a simpler meal, but enough to fill them up for a few hours.

“Oh yeah, time flies, especially during a war.” He looks back at the two dinners he’s currently wanting to gobble up. “What should I get? The _Halászlé_ or the _lángos_?”

They shrug, “Why not both?”

He blinks, before smiling, “That’s a great idea; thanks!”

“Are you done choosing?”

“Yeah, c’mon, let’s find an empty spot before everyone clogs the pathway up.”

They followed Belgium to the gathering room, and was thoroughly relieved that there was enough space on the sofas for the both of them. The two sit down, legs touching, making them flustered, while Belgium laughs.

“Is this the reason why you don’t like to be touched?” He teases, “Because you get incredibly flustered?”

“Hush up, that’s not the only reason”, they reply with a small smile. “I’m just not used to physical contact.”

“Then get yourself used to touching!”

“I’m not the type of person to force myself into things I’m practically uncomfortable at first.”

“Eh, fair.” He digs in, letting out a noise of satisfaction whenever he takes a bite of his dinner.

Perhaps they should take a bite, too. They bite in their food, and their senses tingle, exploding with satisfaction; _this was the best dish they’ve ever tasted_ (for now). The way it just seduces their taste buds to try more of them, putting them into submission, was the best feeling they’ve ever had. It was like the taste wants them to taste even _more_ of them, and they do, eating more and more until their stomach can take no more.

So _this_ is how it feels like to eat something exceptionally delicious; elated and satisfied. They savor every food possible, leaving no crumb behind.

“The food is _delicious_ ”, they say to Belgium.

He laughs, “You have quite an appetite.”

They chew on their food, “I’m surprised myself.”

“Why thank you.” A voice behind the two startles them, and they turn around to face Hungary, dark green eyes on them. He smiles, “I tend to get that a lot.”

Belgium rolls his eyes, “Oh, don’t flatter yourself Hungary; I bet that he’d compliment other people’s cooking with the same words.”

Even if ‘he’ was better than being called an ‘it’, it still reminds them that this wasn’t their body.

“I know, I know”, he chuckles, staring at them, “it’s just so strange to see a new person in Britain’s body act the opposite of him.”

“Well I’m not technically his opposite”, they say, keeping their guard up towards Hungary, wary. “I’m just a soul that woke up in his body.”

“Which is fascinating beyond belief.”

The talk of them being fascinating or being above comprehension was making them even more uncomfortable. They purse their lips, trying to be nice but at the same time hostile towards them, “I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything fascinating about me.”

“That’s because you don’t think that you are exceptional”, he laughs, “but I do; all my years as a fusion, I and Austria had never formed the fusion’s own soul.”

“It won’t be an exceptional experience for your body”, they reply as bluntly as possible, “it’d have to deal with an existential and identity crisis.”

“The only reason why you’re feeling these kinds of things is because you were born in the wrong place and time.”

They perk up, “What?”

“Well, I supposed that that was the problem with you.” He says, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa. His smile becomes a little more gentler. “You’re too uncomfortable with me.”

They glare at him, “I’m uncomfortable towards anyone, so don’t go flatter yourself.”

He chuckles, “Already so snarky.”

They clench their plates, “Thank you, it’s a defense mechanism.”

Belgium snorts, “He’s already at his teenage rebellion phase!”

Hungary clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You don’t need to be so cold with me, I’m harmless.”

“Then you have to prove your innocence to me.”

“I just want to learn more about you.”

“You’re not welcome to learn more about me.”

“Then how am I able to gain your trust?”

“You _don’t_ just ask me something like that”, they reply, slightly more hostile, “you have to earn it; besides I don’t even know how to gain people’s trust myself.”

“I trust you”, Belgium calls out, still eating his dinner.

He rolls his eyes, “Alright, alright; do you want more food so that I could get you to talk to me?”

Their remaining grey eye glint at the mention of more food. “How much food remains in there?”

“Why don’t I find out?” He takes the plate from their hands, walking back into the kitchen.

Once he vanished into the kitchen, they turn back to Belgium, “I don’t like him.”

“C’mon pal, you’re giving him the cold shoulder— he’s a swell guy once you get to know him.”

“He’s not a swell guy in my book yet if he keeps looking at me like he wants to murder me.”

“Wanting to murder you is taking it a bit too far, kid.”

“But that is the feeling I feel whenever he looks at me like that.”

“He’s just curious, is all.”

“Can he do that with a more casual face?”

“Well he’d look a lot like you whenever he stares at you.”

They stare at Belgium. “Do I look creepy to you?”

He scratches his head, awkwardly laughing, “If I’m being honest, you’re doing that blank face right now.”

They blink, “I am? I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to react properly. Do you want me to be more expressive?”

“You know what? It may be uncomfortable to see in another perspective but… I guess once you’re used to it, you can never stop.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Meh, do whatever you want in your life; I’m just a sidekick.”

“You’re not a sidekick— you’re a _friend_.” They smile at him, the biggest smile they have cracked since they have come here.

Belgium was surprised for a moment, before smiling himself. “That’s right.”

* * *

Hungary didn’t come back to them after leaving with their plate. They were disappointed; their stomach is still empty, already digesting their dinner. They were really regretting letting Hungary take their plate to get more of dinner. They groan, dinner already done with a flash, as everyone gathers around the gathering room, buzzing with excitement and fear of what’s going to happen. They, however, are nervous and wary of the world outside of the resistance.

But they try hiding it in the best poker face possible; England would not like seeing his vessel being vulnerable around the others.

They sling their bag around their shoulders, noting how heavy it is around their body.

It doesn’t bother them though; the only thing that bothers them is France and Poland talking and laughing at a corner.

Their remaining dark grey eye is fixated on the two of them, laughing like they made a joke to themselves.

Something’s going on between them.

But they shouldn’t jump to conclusions; they’re just friends.

(Right?)

“Hey”, Belgium waltzes towards them, “you got everything packed?”

“Yeah”, they reply, eyes still fixated on France and Poland.

Their friend follows their gaze towards his mother and friend, conversing together and making ends meet. He sighs, “Are you jealous?”

“No”, their reply was immediate, “France is never _that_ affectionate towards men whenever she’s in a relationship with one.”

“I mean… you and mom aren’t dating for the meantime, technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, England — you mentioned he was the only person who wanted another try — is with the Third Reich, so all that’s left is a body. And you told her yourself; you’re not interested in her.”

They were about to argue back, but in their hearts, what Belgium said is true; they’re not interested and England is absent at the moment. But they did not break off their relationship— not yet. Was it alright to have an affair with someone because their loved one is not with them? “I… suppose that you are right.”

Belgium nods, “I’m always right.”

“Everyone!” The entire room quiets down as France stands at the center of the room, all of the people’s attention turned to her. They wished that they have her bravery, her confidence. To confront a crowd like this always takes energy. “It’s five minutes before midnight! We all know what that means!”

“Death by Nazis”, the Netherlands answers casually, and everyone else chuckles alongside him. 

France rolls her eyes, smirking along with the others. “We’ll only get murdered if we are too reckless and irresponsible.” Her tone and face grows serious at once, “Now, who are the volunteers for getting Britain’s vessel back to the British Isles again?”

The Netherlands, Belgium, Denmark, and Hungary raise their hands immediately; Belgium lightly elbows them to raise their hand, and they do, confused to why they have to do that. After all, she meant volunteers to escort them home.

To be honest, they felt quite guilty that the four of them were being assigned on a suicide mission to get them back to the British Isles, with a chance that Sweden might not even give them a boat out of fear of the Third Reich or being neutral to the war.

(They inwardly hope that he would give them a vehicle to ride on.)

“You all have your bags of supplies and food, correct?” France queries, raising a brow.

“Yes”, Belgium answers for all of them, a content expression on his face. “Food that would never spoil and some water. A set of clothes; a disguise.”

“Use all of them wisely; _never_ waste your water nor food”, she says, before going back to address the others, “and what is the route that you’ll be able to take to get to Sweden?”

“We stake out of Dunkirk at midnight”, Hungary answers, “then we get to Antwerp, then to the Hague, then towards… _Bremen_ , then to Odense, where we have to distract the Nazis long enough for Sweden to — hopefully — send out a boat to get us.”

“Hopefully…” Denmark mutters under her breath, sighing. “If he doesn’t accept my plea, then we are done for.”

“All that work for nothing, amiright?” The Netherlands tries for a joke, but everyone throws glances at each other with worry.

“Then pray to the continents that Sweden comes and takes all of you”, France replies with a sigh; she knows the risks. “If not… we’ll find another way.”

“ _If_ there’s another way”, Czechoslovakia talks back with an exhausted expression.

“We can make it happen”, she replies, turning to Dunkirk, “Dunkirk, will you be able to steal a jeep from the Nazis?”

“Vichy thinks I’m an ally”, he replies semi-proudly; France winces at that name. “So I’m able to manipulate her to my side.”

France’s confident face falters at Dunkirk’s sentence; this ‘Vichy’ must be a hard topic for her. She smiles, “That’s good, Dunkirk. All of you, watch where you step— one misstep will cause you your capture or _death_.”

“I’d rather _die_ than get captured by fucking Nazis”, Belgium says seethingly, and they are inclined to agree.

“But I don’t want you all to suffer a fate of death or of imprisonment”, she continues, “I want you all to come to the British Isles in one piece.”

They perk up at that last sentence. They turn to Belgium, “What did she mean by that?”

He looks at them with a sheepish expression, “We all have agreed to escort you to the British Isles as well.”

They look startled, “W-Wait, you’re going to come to the British Isles as well?”

He shrugs, “Yeah, to, er, keep watch on you.”

“What does that mean?”

He sighs, as the two of them tune out France’s long speech about not giving up and having courage, “Look, you’re my friend, but admittedly… you don’t make the best decisions.”

“But I have the cities to help me.”

“That’s not enough, Britain, neither is having an infinite archive of memories; you’ve only been alive for three goddamn days, and I don’t want you to— to get _hurt_.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I know, but you have no experience whatsoever”, he says in such a… _paternal_ manner, which was pissing them off. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I _won’t_ , even without you watching over me.”

“How would you know?” He sighs, “Britain, you don’t even have the desire to name yourself; that already says a lot about you.”

“I don’t _need_ a name”, they bite back, frustrated, “I only need to save the British Brothers from oblivion!”

“You lack the thought of caring for yourself”, he chastises, “that isn’t good in the long run.”

“So what?”

“You _need_ us.”

“I- I don’t.”

“Yes you do.” Belgium lightly touches them on the shoulder, “We need you too, so we have to make sure you’re in one piece. You can do that, right?”

They sigh, “Yes, you’re so… nice.”

He laughs, “Only nice to the people I like.”

Britain’s memories flash through their mind; Belgium being mentored by the man himself, with an eager expression on the younger boy’s face. They smile, “I know.”

_And I want to keep it that way_.

* * *

They grimace going back to the sewers, but it had to be done. They cringe as they accidentally step on one of the canal’s waters, sharing Britain’s disgust with the most unhygienic things in life. They take a look at the walls, wanting to hold them for support, but they hum in disgust as they find the walls filled with mold and whatever is wedged between the cracks on the walls. They’re just going to pray to the deities to help them keep themself upright.

“Don’t worry, I was as disgusted as you when I came here”, Belgium says, trying to lift their mood. “Slipped and fell because I was too distracted staring at the walls.”

“I don’t think that I can fathom slipping and falling towards… _that_ kind of water.” They shudder at that image.

“You won’t, if you keep your eyes forward”, the Netherlands says, tying his dark cloak together. “I’ve been navigating these kinds of sewers for days to the point I got used to ‘em.”

“Are you saying that you’re a sewer rat now?” Denmark jokes, and Netherlands chokes on air.

“Not in _that_ way, excuse me!” He retorts, flustered.

“Aw, Pa, it’s okay— we knew that you were a rat the very first day.” His son snickers.

His father groans. “I hate this trip already.”

Hungary raises a brow, still keeping his eyes forward. “We’ve only just left.”

“It would’ve been better if I had been in my own house, smoking weed in my bedroom as I unravel myself.”

They raise a brow, tilting their head, “You smoke weed?”

He shrugs, “Yeah, once you start, you’re not able to stop.”

“Ugh, no wonder why you always smell like weed all the time dad”, Belgium groans, “I didn’t wanna tell you in case I might hurt your feelings, but now I got confirmation from yourself.”

“When did you start anyway?” They ask, “I don’t think I have memories of Britain catching you in the act.”

“I do it secretly, obviously”, he rolls his eyes, putting his hands at the back of his head, “one day, in the future, I’m legalising cannabis in my country.”

Hungary laughs, “Good luck with that; how are you able to gain your people’s approval?”

He smirks, “I have my ways.”

Dunkirk, who was in front of the line of renegades, stop, and the others follow. He stares at the sewer’s lid, sighing. “All right everyone, it’s time for us to come out to the real world.”

They swallow, biting their lip; they’re not ready for this, but they _have_ to do this.

“You all know what to do, right?”

All of them nod, simultaneously saying, “Yes.”

“All of you have to dress up like— like you’re all _Nazi supporters_ .” Everyone grimaces at those words, but they are obligated to act the part. “And I sweet-talk Vichy to get us a jeep straight to Antwerp, if I’m lucky enough. But even with your disguises on she might recognise you all, so _act inconspicuous_.” He turns to face Britain’s vessel, and they jump, “Especially you.”

They groan in frustration, “I _know_ how to blend in, Dunkirk.”

He ignores them, making them _even more_ frustrated; Britain didn’t like being ignored, and so do they. He continues, “If we get caught, just make up the best kinda excuse that happened to be on your mind right now.”

“Like smoking weed at the Ardennes”, the Netherlands speaks up, “that’s casual, right?”

“Considerin’ the fact that there’re rumors of the Third Reich likin’ crack so much I don’t see why not.” Denmark unzips her bag, pulling out a Nazi pin with a face of disgust. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this to myself; it’s like branding my body temporarily.”

“You said it”, Belgium agrees, staring at his own with eyes purely made for setting everything on fire.

“This hurt _a lot_ to look at, imagine even wearing it”, the Netherlands says, “especially if the party is behind the Jewish homicide.”

“The Holocaust”, Hungary replies, “heard he’s murdering Slavs and Romanis too.”

They shake their head, staring at their own pin, the swastika at the center making their head pound. “Then no one — except the Aryans — are safe.”

“That’s why we can’t let him win the war”, Dunkirk says, already climbing up the ladder, “we’d _all_ be dead.”

The Netherland's expression was serious, “That won’t happen.”

“It won’t if we’re sneaky during every operation”, Denmark says, rubbing her hands over her legs for a firmer grip over the bars of the ladder. “And we need tact and wisdom on our side too.”

“Which we _will_ have when someone’s back in on the game”, Dunkirk says, lifting the lid before pushing himself up.

One by one, all the others climb out of the sewers and into the fresh night air, with them being the last. The cold breeze was the first to collide with their skin, a startling issue since they have grown accustomed to the warm air around the resistance’s headquarters. They take a deep and long breath of fresh air, relieved since they cannot do that underneath the sewers where even rats breathe in the same air as they do.

“I miss outside air”, they say as they climb out, putting the lid back in its place. “It feels so fresh and nice.”

“You miss it?” Dunkirk asks.

“Hm? Yes.” They look around discovering that they emerged through a back alley. “Where are we?”

“Still in Dunkirk”, the city’s namesake replies, clicking his tongue, “just near the City Hall; I asked Vichy to meet there.”

“D’ya think she’ll agree?” Belgium asks, “ya know that despite being a Nazi, she’s still a half of my mother.”

“I know”, he sighs, “so we gotta make _all_ of you unrecognizable to her.”

They speak up, “And… how are we supposed to do that?”

“Just look unfamiliar to her and act like Nazis.”

The Netherlands hums, “Hm, I don’t like this plan.”

Denmark glares at him, “Do you have another plan, then?”

He chuckles, “Too bad I don’t have one.”

“It’s settled then”, Hungary says nonchalantly (a little _too_ nonchalantly, in their perspective), putting a fedora on his head and a pair of glasses, “we have to look like visitors to Vichy.”

“I’ve met her before; she’s a nice and swell woman.” Dunkirk pauses for a moment, “Because she’s France but a Nazi puppet.”

“There is no such thing as a ‘nice nazi’.” Belgium says. “Even if it’s my mom.”

“Now now, let’s just learn how to blend in the background”, the Netherlands says, patting his son on the shoulder as he puts on a coat. “And let’s get the damn jeep.”

“And remember, once you reach Belgian grounds, I won’t be able to help you anymore”, Dunkirk says, facing the country’s namesake. “The Nazis are everywhere, especially on the borders; convince that province West Flanders to get you into Antwerp, Belgium.”

He smirks, “I have a habit of getting people to my side.”

“Enough to start a war with your brother?”

He rolled his eyes, “He fought me _first_.”

“Come on now, we’re nearing the City Hall”, Dunkirk says, “just do what I do and act natural, okay?”

They all nod. “Okay.”

Dunkirk walks up to the stairs of the City Hall, all full of Nazi soldiers; the sight was making the poor soul hurl, an influx of anxiety taking over them.

Dunkirk clears his throat, obviously nervous himself, “ _Gegrüßet seist du dem Dritten Reich_.” He had to do it without his voice straining.

“ _Gegrüßet seist du dem Dritten Reich_ ”, they all repeat in a perfect, monotone voice; it unsettles the rest of the party, except for Hungary, who looked dauntless.

One of the guards speak up, “ _Was geht dich das an, Dünkirchen?_ ”

“ _Ist Vichy hier?_ ” He asks, his German clearly limited.

“ _Ja, die Madame sagt, sie wartet auf Sie._ ”

“ _Ah, danke, dass Sie mich benachrichtigt haben, Sir._ ”

“ _Sie sind willkommen und können fortfahren._ ”

Dunkirk nods, “ _Danke nochmal_.” He progresses through the steps, and the others follow suit before they are blocked by the Nazi soldiers.

The head guard turns back to Dunkirk, “ _Und wer sind das?_ ”

Dunkirk is visibly sweating, “ _Meine Freunde, Kapitän_.”

“ _Und was geht sie das an?_ ”

“ _Sie wollen, dass Vichy meine Stadt verlassen darf, Captain_.”

The guard narrows his eyes, and Britain’s body slightly hopes that he does not catch on. He sighs, “ _Aha. Na worauf warten Sie dann noch? Unsere Herrin wird ungeduldig!_ ”

The group takes in one collective breath of relief, as all of them follow Dunkirk up the steps. Their single grey eye focuses on the Nazi soldiers lined up on the Dunkirk City Hall, wondering if this was the same for the other countries that were conquered by the Third Reich.

Dunkirk opens the doors, and they are greeted by — unsurprisingly — Nazis. They shudder as they pass by them, their stares digging a dagger right on their back. They shudder, staring far ahead and tilting their fedora to hide their face.

After a few twists and turns, they finally arrive at another large door. Dunkirk gingerly presses a hand on the door, turning to them, “Was my office before; now I’m just a visitor.”

He knocks once, twice, thrice.

A cold but slightly sweet voice answers, “ _Qui est là_?”

“ _C’est moi, Vichy_ ”, he says in a sad tone. “ _Pouvons-nous entrer?_ ”

The group hears shuffling of papers behind the doors, “ _Y a-t-il d'autres personnes avec vous?_ ”

It physically _hurt_ to hear France’s voice in another’s body; Belgium’s face was all scrunched up, conflicted and shaking. They put a hand on their friend’s shoulder, wanting to calm him down in their own way.

“ _Oui, quelques personnes avec moi souhaitent obtenir votre autorisation pour sortir des frontières françaises_.”

“ _Je vois; Amenez-les, Dunkerque._ ” Dunkirk turns to them with a serious look in his face, before opening the door.

The company tries not to gasp at the sight of France sitting behind the desk, arranging a bunch of papers whilst humming the German anthem. Her dark brown hair was tied to a bun, her eyes looked tired and dead, her smile faint, skin pale. She was wearing an ordinary military uniform with the brand of the nazis on her arm.

She looked disturbingly… _content_.

No wonder why Free France is troubled at the mention of Vichy.

From a perspective, she looks so _similar_ to France that it was quite jarring; the same face, the same voice… but there was something different about her too.

Mostly because she was wearing a Nazi pin; that was a dead giveaway.

She continues humming, sorting through the files, unaware of the uncomfortable air around all of them. Out of the corner of their eye, Belgium had a conflicted look on his face, fists clenched; the Netherlands looked grim; Dunkirk had a solemn expression; Denmark was looking down at the floor; Hungary was staring at Vichy with a sad frown.

Yes, they were all full of mixed feelings at the sight of her.

Dunkirk clears his throat, “Madame.”

Vichy stops humming, looking up from her work, before laughing, “Oh! I forgot you were here!”

He laughs dryly, “You seem to be stuck in your own world, Vichy; what’s going on in your head?”

“Just a few daydreams here and there”, she waves a hand, before her eyes focus on the group Dunkirk brought. “Now you’re the people who want my permission to leave the French borders?”

The group throws furtive glances at each other, unsure of what to say or who gets to go first.

“Uh”, Belgium steps forward, his voice cracking, “I’m— _We’re_ a team of scientists recruited by Dunkirk to be transported to the Nazis.” Belgium blinks, and Britain's vessel instantly finds out it was in Morse code, just from their memories of Britain learning it; _Roll with the roles, people_.

Vichy looks intrigued, leaning forward, wringing her hands, “A team of scientists, eh?”

“Yes, the soldiers outside were… _amazed_ by our research”, they improvised, shaking nervously. “They told us that they want the Third Reich to see our amazing findings.”

Vichy raises a brow, interested; they realised they have probably made a mistake. “Oh? May I see them so that I can just mail them to the Third Reich?”

They swear internally, smile faltering.

“ _Godverdomme Groot-Brittannië_ ”, the Netherlands mutters under his breath.

They blink at him in Morse; _Sorry_.

“N-no need, Vichy”, Dunkirk says, attempting to save them, “they want to speak to the Third Reich personally.”

She blinks, confused. “But I’m his girlfriend; anything that has to do with the Reich passes through me.”

Everyone’s thought process fries up once she says that.

Dunkirk averts his gaze, as if suddenly reminded of Vichy’s misfortune.

Belgium looks taken aback, repulsed.

The nameless person just opens their mouth in surprise, not seeing it coming.

The Netherlands looked shocked.

Denmark has a solemn expression on her face.

Hungary just frowns.

“V-Vichy, we just need transportations”, Dunkirk stammers out weakly, “they are in a rush as the Reich expects them to show the day after tomorrow, and we all know what will happen if they are a few seconds late.”

She pauses, before her face etches to worry. “Oh, my apologies; I do not want you to be victims of the Third Reich’s wrath. Do you want me to do something?”

Dunkirk’s face lights up, “Yes please, we’d want a jeep to escort us out of Dunkirk.”

“I see.” She stands gracefully, a small smile on her face. “Do you want me to accompany you for the ride?”

Dunkirk laughs, “No thank you; we need you _here_.”

She looks slightly disappointed at the decline. “I see.”

“But we wouldn’t mind you taking us to where the jeeps are”, Belgium speaks up out of impulse.

The group stares at him with a lapse of judgement; even they were surprised at their sudden act of impulse.

Vichy blinks, before smiling. “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

As they walk towards the midnight air, they turn to Belgium. They would’ve been blinking profanities in Morse code, but the street lights were dim against the night’s darkness. They slightly touch Belgium’s hand, which elicits a small surprised squeak from the sudden contact.

They waste no time in tapping their intended Morse code, their fingers like an extension of their voice. _What was that back there_?

He wastes no time coding back, _I dunno either_.

_What do you mean, you didn’t know_?

_It just came outta my mouth_.

“Here you go”, Vichy says, stopping in front of a jeep, “it’s cozy ‘n enough for the likes of youse.”

“ _Merci, madame_.” He says, “I could not thank you enough for your hospitality.”

She laughs, flicking a hand, “It is no problem; though I do wonder why you would want a meeting with me at midnight.”

“We were notified a little too late about our departure”, Hungary says pleasantly and casually, like he was built for this.

“Ah, then I’ll just tell the Third Reich to forgive you if you arrived too late.”

“No need”, Dunkirk says, “I have already notified your moll.”

“Aw, you’re too book-smart for your own good,” France says, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Y'all are too sweet, but I suppose that you are all rushin’ to get to Reich.”

“We are”, Denmark says with a faulty smile, “and I do not want to be a victim of his punishments.”

“You’re too hard on him; he’s a sweetheart once you all get to know him.”

They shudder, and they know that everyone else’s reactions were uncomfortable or cringe slightly.

Maybe that’s the reason why England was snapping his cap the other day— the Third Reich toyed him and gloated at how he had managed to win over France’s heart.

(Or half of her, at least.)

It didn’t look so healthy.

“Yes, I sure hope so”, Belgium says with gritted teeth; they hold his hand, and he stares at them out of surprise.

“Well, I’ll be outta your hair then; have a nice trip!” She waves them a farewell before departing, humming a — certain — German tune.

The darkness was quiet for a while, the trees swaying lightly with the cold breeze.

Then all of them turn their heads towards Dunkirk like he was the one to blame.

“You didn’t tell me that she was dating the Third Reich.” Belgium was the first to let his frustration out.

“She remembers, but she only remembers what the Third Reich _wants_ her to remember.” Dunkirk looks away, regretful.

“So you and the others let Vichy be manipulated?” They ask.

“It’s not like that!” Dunkirk sobs, “He- he was _good_ with his words! Enough for her to- to ‘fall in love’ with the image he created for her!”

“She _is_ a puppet, after all”, Denmark says grimly, “being pulled by the strings.”

“We need to get Vichy out of his control”, Belgium says.

“Not right now, son”, his father replies, “we have a job to do.”

He groans in frustration, bowing his head down; he knows that they were all right. “Fine.”

Dunkirk revs the engine, sticking his head out from the driver’s seat. “Come on now, it’s already 12:30.”

“Right.” They sit on the passenger seat and others soon follow, putting their seatbelt on. “How long is the drive towards Flanders?”

“An hour or so.”

They nod, “Then let’s get started.”

All of them have a long journey ahead.

But that does not stop them from being eager, though.

They’re going through one hell of a journey.

* * *

This is their first time in a vehicle. They’ve seen Britain’s memories of him driving around his automobile — with France — but he’s never been in a jeepney before.

They felt a little smug; they rode a jeep before Britain ever did.

They’ve always wanted to experience what it felt like, driving into one place and another; now they know. Their only eye looks out from the windows, the buildings luminated by their own artificial light and the moon up above them. The streetlights and the headlights of the jeep were the ones helping the group across the night, the clock ticking. They brought a map with them, studying the route they were taking; Britain had a road trip during Europe every business meeting, and he had traveled either by horse or by wheels.

According to Dunkirk, they’d get to West Flanders in about an hour.

“Oi Dunkirk, how long will we get from West Flanders to Antwerp?” They ask, eyes fixated on their map.

“About another hour, if we don’t run into any detours and whatnot.”

“Mm, right.” They trace the route with a pencil, their eyes fixated on the map beneath Belgium’s flashlight.

“So, do you have any ideas for a new name?” They turn towards Dunkirk, his eyes on the road. “After all, we can’t call you ‘Britain’ forever.”

They chuckle, “You guys really want to label me.”

“I don’t see why you aren’t worried about it!” Denmark sorts through the jeep’s side pockets; she groans. “This has an overwhelmingly large amount of Nazi pamphlets.”

“What do you expect? It’s a jeep for _Nazis_ ”, the Netherlands looks out of the jeep’s windows, wind blowing over his hair. “‘Course there’s gonna be loads’a pamphlets full’a propaganda.”

Belgium yawns, “Oh man, I wish I’d slept through the day so that I could be prepared for the night.”

“You woke up early to cook us up breakfast”, the Netherlands replies, messing with his hair, “you should’a gotten some sleep.”

“I drank a cuppa joe yesterday, which was why I couldn’t catch some z’s.”

“You have a problem.”

“I don’t have one, dad; _you’re_ the one with an addiction problem.”

He chuckles, “Well, that _is_ true.”

“What do we do when you guys get to West Flanders?” Dunkirk asks, “I’m not allowed to go beyond my city for understandable reasons, so we better plan before we get there.”

“If West Flanders is still loyal to a fault, then maybe I’m able to convince her that I and the others mean no harm”, Belgium replies.

“That would only work _if_ they are not under mind control”, the driver replies, “what would you do if they are under mind control?”

“Uh… then we go with his cover story”, he points to them, still tracing a route on the map.

“Stop moving your flashlight, Belgium”, they say, pencil shaking as the jeep hits a bump on the road.

“Its cover story? The story nearly _killed_ us!” The Netherlands exclaims.

“Then let’s hope to the best that it works, okay?” Dunkirk says, “pray to the continents that this whole plan works.”

“I’m Christian.” They say.

“You’re not Britain, though.” Everyone says in perfect harmony, surprising them.

They sigh.

* * *

Time slips by like lightning, fast and ferocious one second, slow and careful the next. The jeep at exactly one in the morning, already on the borders of Belgium.

“I’m not allowed to leave my city; I’ll get incinerated when I do that”, Dunkirk says, “get to the town of De Panne; West Flanders and the town’s immortal might be there.”

“Thank you for the help, Dunkirk”, they nod, “my sincerest apologies that you can’t come with us.”

“You’re lucky that I can tell you’re sincere”, Dunkirk sighs, turning the engine off, “but first, Imma talk to those Germans over there and ask to grant you safe passage, hm?”

“Of course.”

The group watches as the city’s host salutes the Nazis almost casually, “ _Guten Morgen meine Herren! Entschuldigung, dass Sie so früh am Morgen hineingelaufen sind, aber ist die Stadt De Panne hier?_ ”

The rest of their conversation was muffled as they were engrossed into their group’s conversation.

“When did Dunkirk get so good at German?” Belgium asks.

“I taught him back in the Napoleonic days”, the Netherlands recounts, “although he needs to up his game on pronouncing German correctly.” He cringes as he hears Dunkirk mispronouncing a verb.

Belgium sighs, “Ah right, you were one of — the many — children of the Holy Roman Empire.”

“There’s still some Germanic blood on ya.” His father winks and he groans.

“Britain was descended from Germania too”, they speak up, “just from England.”

They hear Dunkirk laughing with the other men, before coming back to the jeep with a relieved smile on his face. “De Panne’s going to drive y'all to West Flanders; she’s kind enough to reserve a room at a hotel for you.”

“Does she know that it’s us?”

He hums, “No, I made sure of that.” He offers the keys to Belgium, “this is your turf now, _adieu_.”

Belgium smiles at the keys, nodding towards Dunkirk. “ _Au revoir et sois prudent aussi, Dunkerque._ ”

He laughs, “ _J'essaierai_.”

Belgium starts up the engine, before shifting the gears into drive. He turns to them, “Oi, stop straining’ your eyes.”

They sigh fondly, folding the map and putting it back into their bag. “Fine.”

* * *

They felt uncomfortable riding at the back of the jeep; they already missed being in the front seat and with no physical contact with others whatsoever. They purse their lips as the Netherlands’ shoulders bump into them, or Denmark accidentally elbows them on the chest. They _hate_ it there, crowded with the others— but they have to give up their seat for Belgium, since De Panne was driving them.

At least no one was talking to them.

“Thanks for driving us here, Miss De Panne”, Belgium says, “you’re a life-saver.”

She laughs, “Now don’t be like that Mister Jacobs— but next time don’t wake me up during midnight.”

He chuckles, “Sure thing, De Panne.”

“Are y’all tired though? You look like you haven’t hit the hay yet.”

“Indeed we are, miss”, the Netherlands says, emphasising his yawn. He unintentionally makes their ears ring, and they internally groan at the loud sound. “Heard that you were able to reserve a room at a hotel.”

She nods, “I did, and it seems that that was a good idea, as you all look like you need to hit the hay.”

“We’re fine”, Denmark says briskly, “just serve us a cup of joe and we’re outta here.”

“I pulled a fuckin’ all-nighter last night to gather the things we need, Sofia”, the Netherlands snaps, “I _need_ to put my head on a pillow or I _will_ faint.”

Belgium feigns a chuckle, definitely embarrassed. “Thank you for your kindness, De Panne.”

“Aw, don’t mention it, Jacobs!” she puts a hand on his shoulder, and out of the corner of their eye, she happens to be flirting. “I don’t want to turn my back on people who managed to get the Third Reich’s attention!”

The person beside the driver swallows, “Hah, yes, the Third Reich was very eager to greet us; he cannot wait for our tiny group to arrive in Germany so he has asked us to travel at midnight.”

“I’ll have a talk with the Third Reich—”

“N-No”, he stops her, before regaining composure, “no need, Miss De Panne; Dunkirk already called the Third Reich and our… _highly esteemed_ leader was lenient enough to let us sleep before we drive to West Flanders.”

She hums, “Hm, alright, let’s get to the hotel so that you all could catch some z’s!”

“At last!” The Netherlands says, jumping on a bed, spreading his arms and legs out. “A real bed without bed bugs!”

“Let’s hope it stays that way”, Denmark says, buttoning her shirt up, on guard with the people in the room, who were mostly men. She catches Belgium staring at her, “Mind your manners, boy.”

He cringes when she calls him a ‘boy’, but he looks the other way. “My apologies.”

Unfortunately, De Panne had _literally_ rented them a single room with only three beds; the group’s excitement died down once they saw how small and how cheap the room was, but they were not here for a vacation, after all.

_If only I won the free bed_ , they think to themself, washing their face in the bathroom. _But Denmark won it_ ; _which was understandable, since she was a woman while they were men_.

They turn the faucet off.

Were they a man?

They look up, coming face-to-face with their reflection.

They blink for a moment, processing their appearance.

They have dark brown hair covering their eye patch (so that no one would question where they got their injured eye from), light and pale skin that looked close to death, dark circles underneath their eyes, and slightly sullen cheeks.

All in all, they look like crap.

No worries; they’ve been dead for a few days before gaining a soul and learning how to live, so of course their appearance would look somewhat like a corpse.

They fold their trench coat, currently only donning their undershirt and pants.

They were quite comfortable.

Fixing their hair a little, they remove the eye patch from their eye, putting it on their pockets, taking a deep breath. They didn’t know _why_ they were taking a deep breath, but here they are.

Someone knocks on the door, “Hey! I’m in need of a shower ‘cause I said ‘highly esteemed leader’ to De Panne!”

They roll their eyes, “I was already getting out.” They open the door, with Belgium walking past them like he was in a hurry.

They were actually content with the small hotel room— the only thing they are _not_ okay about is that they have to _share_ a bed with someone else; literally. De Panne should’ve made sure Denmark was a girl before giving them a room with three beds.

Then they would’ve been the winner of that stupid game they played.

They plop down on the bed; it was soft yet small, so that would mean that they have to turn on their side for the rest of their sleep. They take another deep breath; they hope that — at the very least — either Belgium or the Netherlands would be their bedmate for the night.

“ _Jó estét_.”

They clench the bedsheets in surprise— why do the fates hate him so? “Ah, Hungary, you scared me.”

He gives them a small smile, “Not on purpose.”

Their lips purse to a thin line. “Not on purpose, huh?”

“We’re bedmates tonight— or this morning”, he shrugs, “whether you like it or not.”

“I dislike it more than like it”, they reply, “you’re making me uncomfortable.”

He laughs, “Everything makes you uncomfortable.”

“... I’m not talking to you.” They turn away, fluffing their pillows.

“Come on, you can’t just avoid me forever.”

“I _can_ and I _will_.”

“Why are you so on-the-edge with me?”

“Because you _make me uncomfortable_.” They lie down, back turned to Hungary. “And I want to sleep since I am tired; good night.”

He sighs, and they feel the bed putting in more weight, “ _Jó éjszakát_.”

* * *

De Panne was their driver again.

So that means that they have to sit _in the back_ again.

They’re cooped up between the Netherlands and Denmark again, one half-asleep and their head lolling on their shoulder, the other insulting the Nazis in Danish under her breath. Their grey eye lands on Hungary, staring out the window.

They frown; were they too harsh on them last night?

They dismiss the thought— _he_ was the one who had been making them uncomfortable in the first place.

De Panne had woken everyone up at six in the morning, stating that West Flanders was waiting for them, even flipping the beds sideways just so they could get up willingly. Apparently, they slept like a baby, since they did not wake up when De Panne slammed the door open, shouted ‘good morning’ on top of her lungs, her heels clacking loudly on the floor. The only thing that had woken them up from their slumber was the minor immortal flipping their bed sideways.

At least they had a fruitful breakfast (although De Panne had to pull them out of their chair before they can finish it), so at the very least, their morning wasn’t _that_ bad.

But being in the back seat of the jeep _is_.

“Will West Flanders be meetin’ us?” Belgium asks.

“‘Course! She too is quite interested in y’all, y’know!”

Belgium titters, “Oh really? Is that so?”

“Yes!”

They block out the rest of their conversation, too busy trying to push their friend’s head to Hungary’s direction.

West Flanders looked a lot like Belgium— probably because they were in the same branch of the family tree. She had the same wavy light blonde hair — turning into gold — freckles, and golden eyes.

The Flanders from their memory had a sunny disposition; this one looked dull and dead.

“Mister Jacobs and company”, she greets Belgium with a nod and a dry voice, “welcome.”

“Good morning, Miss Janssens”, he says in a casual voice, “I do hope that our early arrival did not ruin your sleep.”

“Not at all— I’ve been waiting for you to come.” She walks towards her house, confident in her strides. She takes her keys out of her pocket, before unlocking the doors to her home. “Please, come in.”

They tilt their head; they’re being invited into another’s person’s home.

They narrow their eyes, walking in her home the last.

Something about her is fishy.

They shake their head. She is one of Belgium’s most trusted provinces, and to think that she is guilty would mean thinking that Belgium, a friend, is guilty.

They catch a glimpse of Nazi symbols on every crevice of the hallway.

Belgium follows them with his eyes. “You’ve… redecorated.”

“To appease our _Führer_ ”, she replies, “I’ve disposed of the Belgian flags to prove my allegiance to the Third Reich.”

They stare at Belgium, hoping that it was all a ruse; deceit. Judging from the lump in Belgium’s throat, he was as unsure of the current situation as they all were.

“Yes, that is quite a… _good call_.”

“Anything to please the Third Reich, to convince him that I will _always be_ on his side.”

Belgium gives her a faulty smile. “I can see your… dedication for him.”

She pats a cushion on the sofa, a small smile crossing her face. “Now seat, all of you; you all have a busy day ahead of you.”

“Indeed we do, Miss Janssens”, Denmark replies, still standing as the others take a seat, cautious, “we have to get to Antwerp.”

“And you _will_ ”, she replies, “but I and Mister Jacobs here have plenty things to discuss.”

He gulps; that was _clearly not_ part of the plan. “We do?”

“Yes”, she replies, “about your… _scientific findings_. Let us take a walk around, shall we?”

He draws in a breath, “O-Of course.”

“We will be back for lunch”, she says, “you can do whatever you want now.” She looks at Belgium, “Mister Jacobs?”

“Right.” He brushes off imaginary dust from himself before walking out of the doors with West Flanders.

They spend the rest of the hours staring at the ceiling, planning and imagining what will happen if West Flanders figured out they were her fellow immortals, or if she is working with the Third Reich.

(They hope that the second option _will not_ happen.)

* * *

“Miss Janssen was kind enough to give us tickets for a train leadin’ to Antwerp”, Belgium says, blowing on his spoonful of soup so that it can be cool enough to consume.

This was the second time they all had a fruitful and bountiful meal; away from those vegetables nearing its spoilage, the taste of soup without any spices, uncooked batter. Britain’s body’s eyes sparkle as they eat a variety of food, taking a few bites of the French fries.

“These French fries are _so_ good”, they say, munching on more as they take another bite of their omelet.

“ _Belgian_ fries”, West Flanders and Belgium correct, earning a few snickers from the others.

Belgium groans, “I _hate_ it when people call them ‘French’, ‘cause they’re not French.”

They laugh, “Whatever you say, Belgium.”

Flanders pours more tea onto her teacup, her face casual-looking. “You owe me a few francs for getting you and your pals train tickets.”

He laughs, “I owe it to ya, Miss Janssen.”

“Please, do not call me Miss Janssen anymore; we are already so close.”

He chuckles, “Then what’s your first name, madame?”

She sets aside the kettle full of tea, her eyes digging deep into Belgium’s soul, her lips curved upwards in a smile.

To be honest, it was creeping them out, to the point they’re losing their appetite.

“By what you call me, day-by-day”, she replies softly and sweetly, but with a cutting edge in it. She wrings her hands together, staring at her formidable guests. “West Flanders.”

Everyone stops eating all at once, coming to stare at the lady right in front of them.

Belgium still plays along, “W-What d’ya mean, Miss Janssen? You can’t have a province’s name, unless your parents insisted on it.” Out of the corner of their eye, Belgium was sweating.

“I already know who you are, _Belgium_ ”, she says it so nonchalantly, calmly; the calm before the storm. She stands, and so do they, already alert. “And I am here to help you all.”

They jump as someone kicks the door open, and Belgium and the Netherlands immediately turn their heads towards whoever came knocking. The group was immediately surrounded by Nazis, guns on their hands, looking at the group with hostile, even disgusted expressions. West Flanders smirks, walking towards Belgium.

“You _sicced_ the Nazis on us?!” Belgium hollers, his face wide; this outcome was _definitely_ unexpected. “After everything I did for you, you chose to _betray me_ like this?!”

“It wasn’t my choice”, she replies simply, touching his golden curls— he slaps her hand away, a face of betrayal in his eyes. She glares at him, her eyes turning to red, “It was _yours_.”

“ _Gib dich jetzt hin, du Verräter!_ ” The Nazis say, trying to close in on the group.

They gulp, _Is this how they die_?

_It was too good to be true anyway_.

Belgium blinks at them, and they immediately realise that it was in Morse code; _You guys take a train ticket with you. We have to split up and run as fast as you can to the train station_.

They blink back at him, _Of course_. They feel Belgium’s hand brushing against theirs, and while the group backs into the window, they take the train tickets, before passing each one to the group members, tapping them all in Morse code.

Belgium looks at his father, like he was signalling him to do something;

As if the Netherlands was the embodiment of lightning, he tackles West Flanders to the floor, which elicits a few shouts of outrage in German, Belgium throws the entire — unfortunately unfinished — meal towards a few officers, stunning them. Hungary managed to sneak up on the police’s backs, taking a few of their guns before knocking them out with clean solid hits.

Meanwhile, they watch as their friends immobilise them, forgetting the fact that they _have to help them_.

They _are_ no good.

When they thought that everything was done, a couple more Nazi officers came barging in, shooting towards the Netherlands;

He dodges the bullet narrowly, his shoulders grazing it as it hits the wall.

They’re all surrounded again.

_Fuck_.

In a split second, they try to find a few of Britain’s memories where he was surrounded by a mob of dangerous people.

They blink, their remaining eye glowing, _Found it_.

They turn to Belgium and Denmark, blinking rapidly in Morse code; _Go take the others, I’ll handle them_.

Their friend tries to stop them by reaching his hand out, but they were already running.

Belgium sighs inwardly, before helping his father up and stunning the Nazis near the door by shooting at them; Denmark and Hungary, meanwhile, race out towards the backdoor, which were full of Nazis as well.

With a straight face, they dodge a few bullets being shot at them like they were just leaves, before kicking the first Nazi in his head to stupefy him, before using him as a shield, treating them like a battering ram as they finally snatch the gun in his pockets before shooting the other Nazis with terrifyingly accurate shots in the head, before breaking their human shield’s neck.

They realised it was the first time they killed someone— _people_.

Their fedora falls from their head, and before they pick it up, West Flanders gasps.

“B-Britain?” she stammers; here they go again, with being mistaken as someone else. “I-I… _we all thought_ you were dead.”

They blankly stare at her, which intimidated the province for some reason, before placing the fedora back on their head. “I’m not Britain.”

They run towards the window, looking down;

_Fuck_.

“Fucking Nazis”, they swear underneath their breath, “always surrounding us.”

With a deep breath, they take a step backwards, calculating the momentum and how their body would react once they hit the ground;

And they jump.They haven’t jumped like their life depended on it until now.

At first, it felt beautiful; wind in their hair, their feet not touching solid ground, eyes wide with fear and excitement and their adrenaline kicking in.

It was enthralling.

Then they hit the hard and rough ground, and they wince, landing on their feet as their legs tremble.

They also winded up supporting their body using their injured wrist.

They writhe in pain, feeling the bones crack.

They only have a second to catch their breath as they hear German, French and Dutch shouting behind them. After a few seconds, they pull themself up before stumbling towards a nearby alleyway, reviewing all of Britain’s memories to try and find the best way outta this hellhole.

Someone shoots a bullet towards them, immediately forcing them to go back to their senses as they — without looking back — shoots someone with the gun they were holding, and they hear him gurgling and choking on his own blood. They run towards the dark alleyway, a plan already developing in their head. They pray to the Seven Continents that this would work like it does, hearing men stomping behind them.

They are trapped in a dead end— or what seems to be one. They look up to find a balcony railing, and start to run to gain the momentum to hold the arm railings.

They successfully grabbed onto the railing, body suspended in mid-air.

They took another reassuring breath; they didn’t believe that that would work.

They hear the sounds of a number of languages being shouted at them, and they promptly pull themself up, just in time for the Nazis to try and shoot them down.

“ _Een indringer_!” Someone in front of them shouts, and they come face-to-face with a family of three staring at them, baffled.

“Apologies”, they say, taking a step backwards; the roof was sloped but was made of bricks: they could climb that. “I’ll be out of your hair now.” They stand on the balcony’s railings before jumping and putting their hands on the gutters to save themself from falling to their deaths. With a bated breath they pull themself onto the roof, wanting to see how far they are from the train station.

They’ve never climbed a roof before— but Britain had.

The bricks that made up the roof were smooth; smooth and slippery. They swear to themself once they slip on one, their good hand gripping onto the bricks as they trudge their way up the top of the building’s roof.

It was a cloudy day today; their originally pleasant morning was ruined because fucking Nazis ambushed their group.

They do hope they were already at the train station; would they wait for them?

Well, _they_ were the reason why they all came here in the first place— to get them home.

Aw, they feel guilty again.

But they push that thought away, trying to find the train station, searching for Britain’s memories for a possible compass.

Something inside them ticks.

Like a storm running its course over a city, they finally find where the train station is; the only question is how the hell they’re going to get down.

_I guess I’m just going to jump on roofs to escape Nazis_ , they think, before doing exactly that.

Roofs are quite slippery; they were either made of steel or with bricks, but that doesn’t change the fact that they struggle to walk straight, or the fact that Nazis were down there, firing shots at them.

They purse their lips indignantly— they’d have to lose them first.

Gaining speed and momentum, they run across every building with a roof, their mind the only thing telling them whether or not they were going the wrong or right way.

Each building was colorful and secretive; it’d be just hard to pick one.

Once they finally reach the end of the rows of houses, they skid to a stop, looking down beneath them.

There were a ton of Nazi officers down below, even with vehicles parked.

_Fucking Nazis_.

They take a step backwards, before running towards the edge of the building they were on; their goal was to make it on the other building’s ledge, getting away from those cops.

They sucked in a breath as they jump, and everything goes into slow-motion, like this was the end of their — short-lived — life.

Everyone stares at them, like they were some sort of fallen angel making a landing, and they felt both comfortable and uncomfortable with the attention, only wanting to get across the gap and away from the Nazis—

Their feet land on hard ground harshly.

They were more relieved than in pain, actually.

Then they start running again; there is no relief until they get to their own solace.

The train station wasn’t that far; just a few more blocks down the road.

They pat the pocket where their ticket was— it was still there, untouched.

This was supposed to be a fast journey but the Nazis are making it _slow_.

They sigh, _I can handle this_.

Britain handled his problems by himself.

* * *

“Where the hell is it?” Denmark asks nobody in particular, scouring the station for the person she was supposed to be escorting. “Don’t tell me it chickened out.”

“I don’t even think that he’s _capable_ of chickening out”, Belgium replies, “he has no self-preservation whatsoever.”

“Well, we’re gonna miss our ride”, the Netherlands states, applying pressure on his arm, where the bullet narrowly missed him. “Maybe we should find him.”

Hungary runs up to the group, “The Nazis are here; they’re scouting the entrance for us.”

“Aw shit”, The Netherlands swears, “let’s split up again and lose those freaks in the crowd, am I clear?”

They all nod, before splitting up in different directions, like they were still mortals, like they were just one of the million people in the world.

Sometimes they wished that that had been true.

Denmark finds the body of Britain first.

She was trying not to attract attention from the Nazis, but also not be as discreet to the point they would suspect that she had been avoiding the cops (which she is). They walk like a proud Belgian citizen, living under the rule of the Nazis; it was honestly exhausting.

She wants her land back.

She doesn’t like chattering with the others; not because she didn’t _want_ to socialize with them, more like she has no clue what men like.

If she was being truthful to herself… she had not even conversed with the newly incarnated immortal yet.

But she’s studied it, and it was a complete opposite of Britain.

It was… _strange_ , studying someone who is in Britain’s body.

She’s still not used to it.

Well, the others aren’t used to it either.

Maybe she can read up on the properties of a fusion once she finally gets to Britain— she’s heard that there was a secret library about immortals, founded by the Roman Empire back in the old days.

She looks at the schedule board; she only had a few minutes left to lose the Nazis on her trail.

_Good_ ; she was an expert on that.

Then she collides with someone; she must have been zoning out so that she had been vulnerable enough to let someone bump into her. The person knocks her down to the floors, and she makes an indignant noise at the back of the throat.

She rubs the back of her head, “ _Se, hvor du skal hen_ —” She looks up, and gasps;

“ _Storbritannien_?” She says, “Where have you been?”

“Sorry for bumping into you”, they reply, out of breath, like they’ve been running from something, “but we gotta board the train to Antwerp _now_.”

She gets up herself, tilting her head to see what’s going on;

A bunch of Nazis were running towards the two in full speed, shouting in German, Dutch, French or whatever language at them.

She looks up at them. “Shit.”

They nod, “Shit indeed; now come on!” They grab her hand — which startles her — running towards the train leading to Antwerp, the Nazis gaining on them.

“ _Train pour Anvers, tous à bord!_ ” the conductor declares, the train’s engines starting.

“Fuck, we might not make it in time”, Denmark says, stumbling between walking strides, trying to keep up with the body; they were _so_ fast, so light on their feet it makes her jealous.

They narrow their eyes, “Oh, we _will_ make it there; I’ll make sure of it.”

They push her forward, making her stumble forwards, but she regains her footing just in time. The two of them push past a mass of bodies, hearing the train station bells ringing. Her short and choppy hair sweeps over her scalp, the winds beating down onto her hair.

She finally sees the train leading out to West Flanders and into Antwerp— and the others.

She furrows her brows, gaining speed to cross the finish line.

A Nazi appears out of nowhere and hinders her strides, almost getting restrained— her companion however, did not see this as a detour and broke his neck in a split second; she didn’t even have the time to process its lightning reflexes, as it blinks at Denmark to run towards the train, and that it could handle these assholes.

Of course she leaves it alone; she runs as fast as she could, the train slowly moving out of its resting stop, steam pouring out of its steam locomotive. She sweats nervously, pressing her lips into a thin line as she whistles for their attention; Hungary manages to notice her, and immediately blinks at her to jump.

And she does— gaining the speed and distance she needed to complete and successfully jump towards the train.

She takes a few deep breaths, exhausted.

“Denmark, where’s Britain?” Hungary asks, and she did not know how to answer— she didn’t even know where it was.

“Right here!” All of their ears perk up at the voice, and they see them running towards them in full speed, Nazis tailing behind them like a pack of wild dogs gaining in on a gazelle.

But Britain’s new soul was no gazelle.

Hungary pulls Denmark all the way up, the train moving even faster.

Belgium runs up towards the already closing doors, reaching his arm out towards his friend, “C’mon pal, jump!”

They grit their teeth, already planning their next move, legs swaying like they were in a swing. “I’m already on it!” Out of the corner of their eye, the train was already making a curve towards a tunnel, and the Nazis were getting desperate on catching them. They growl in exasperation, before lifting their legs and holding their arm out for Belgium to hold.

They didn’t fall to their death and get crushed by the train once they fell into the rails, which was a good thing.

They and Belgium both took a sigh of relief, as Belgium pulled them up; just in time for the train to disappear into the tunnel.

The two of them collectively lie down on the floor, exhausted and their adrenaline deflating.

“This was a rather eventful day”, Belgium states between breaths, “ _too_ eventful— let’s never do that again.”

“Let’s _never_ trust a province during times of war”, the Netherlands says brightly, still clutching his wounded arm.

“Come on, they might be under some sort of spell”, Hungary tells him, “it ain’t their fault acting like that.”

“Well, whoever is to blame or not, let’s find a train compartment to talk in”, Denmark gives the other passengers a suspicious look, “there are people watching.”

“She’s right”, they agree, putting their hands in their pockets as they stumble to get up, “we need to take this talk somewhere private.”

They managed to find a perfectly spacy yet private train compartment a few minutes later. They’ve never been in a public — or private, for that matter — train compartment before, and they were relieved at how much space there is between them and the others. They _do_ have to share the seat with someone else, but they can establish a personal space between them. According to Britain’s memories, immortals travel by their own private train, detached from the entire mortal populace.

To be honest, that sounds a bit lonely; why would you have your own private transportation vehicles when you can hitch a ride with your fellow mortals?

They fiddle with their fingers and bounce on their leg, looking out the window. It was a rather sunny day, the sun’s rays reaching towards the fields and buildings below it with a jovial disposition; too bad today was not jovial nor even sunny, in a figurative way.

(They… want to play with something.)

“It was a beautiful day today”, they muse to themself, their remaining eye fixated on the provinces of Belgium.

“While you’re fixated on gazing at my provinces, I and the others are busy planning our next moves”, Belgium replies bluntly, throwing his head back as he sighs. “What the absolute fuck happened here?”

“The Nazis happened”, his father replies, taking out the first aid from his bag, undressing. “Fuckin’ Nazis and their guns. I might even consider severing myself from the Germanic branch of my family.”

“You _should_ , if Germany is petty enough to instigate a war two decades after the first.”

The Netherlands hums, “Hm, dunno son, I think that’s too harsh.”

He glares at the older man, “You were literally the one who suggested it.”

“So what’s the plan?” Denmark asks, leaning against the windows, “the Nazis here would have already notified the forces in Antwerp and are now on the lookout for us.”

“Simple, we disguise—”

“The last time we disguised ourselves, West Flanders found out Belgium’s identity, we got ambushed by Nazis, and _you_ got injured.”

“‘Tis but a scratch!” He yells, taken aback. He, with Belgium’s help, starts to wrap the arm that had narrowly dodged the bullet. “But seriously, we need a full plan.”

“Yeah, because ‘barrelling our way into Antwerp’ isn’t good enough.” Denmark rolls her eyes.

“Who said we’d _agree_ on that kinda plan?” Belgium asks.

“I can see it in your face”, she sighs, “you were about to say something stupid.”

“How would you know?”

“You’re the only person who has formulated the plan for us.”

“Oh I’m sorry, did you make a plan for us to execute?”

“Not yet, but—”

“You could’ve told us you have a plan you’re cookin’ up rather than bein’ sad and mopey around us!”

Their ears ring at how loud Denmark’s and Belgium’s voices were, echoing deep in their ears; if they tolerate it any further, they’re going to have a hard time processing other things they hear.

Then how are they supposed to intrude? They have not thought of a plan nor do they want to be the brunt of their irritation.

But they’re getting very irritated, and the others are busily tending to their own wounds rather than stop the argument.

“Cool down”, Hungary says, “we’re too tired as it is to argue with each other.”

“We’ll be off this train in ‘bout two hours”, she argues back, “we don’t have much time to formulate or even solidify a plan.”

“Even if our plan to divert the Nazis’ attention is half-assed, it’s enough.”

“Enough to get us killed?”

He gives her a reassuring smile, which does not reach his eyes. “We’ll get there.”

They search the archives and crevices of Britain’s memories, trying to find a few of the plans the man had formulated that ended up succeeding. They grit their teeth; digging through someone else’s memories like digging through a library book is tiring them out. They clench their eyes shut, fingers gripping their pants as they search for Britain’s brilliant plans; there was a reason why he was almost always a winner.

They close their hands, forming a fist.

_Almost always the winner_.

This is still very complicated and new.

They absorb every plan and tactics Britain had ever pulled, cherry-picking a few moves that had worked smoothly and correctly before.

Like a lightbulb, an idea — a possible plan — clicks into place.

“I… actually have a plan.” They say softly that only Hungary could hear it.

He blinks, “Hm? Can you speak louder, please?”

They swallow trying to gain a voice, standing with their only grey eye glowing. “I… actually have a plan.”

All of their eyes were fixated towards them, and they felt nervous and uncomfortable once again. “But before I can tell you, stop staring at me like a pack of wild dogs.”

Belgium clears his throat, slowly averting his gaze. “Sorry.”

They take a deep breath, preparing themself from repercussions and arguments against the plan. “Once we get to Antwerp’s Train Station, we are going to be met by Nazis wanting to arrest us if West Flanders’ Nazis have already alerted them. They’d surely come and check this train to see whether or not we’re still on. So, we need to distract them.”

Their gears were spinning, even faster than before. “Anyways, Denmark, you make a diversion where the Nazis turn their heads to the other direction; Hungary helps the Netherlands and Belgium get off the train to find a vehicle or any method of transportation that can take us anywhere, and I’ll hold off the Nazis once we all run out of here.”

“It’s… a good plan”, Belgium says, considering it. “I have one question.”

“Ask away.”

“Why the hell are you almost always on the offensive?”

They blink, tilting their head to the right. “What do you mean?”

“Like… I get you want the Nazis to keep away from us, but what about your own well being? I mean the reason we’re on this trip is to escort you back to the British Isles, and we have to get you there _without a scratch_.”

They blink, “I don’t understand.”

“You plan on taking the Nazis down yourself, correct?”

“... I do, why?”

He sighs, “Look, my friend, you’re a nice person, but you need to take care of yourself. We can handle Nazis ourselves, since we’ve experienced the shit they did first-hand.”

“But I want you all to be safe...”

“Kid, _we’re_ the bodyguards, not you”, the Netherlands chides lightly, “we gotta get you home safe.”

Hungary nods, “No use going home when you ain’t in one piece.”

They stare at the ground, once again clenching their hands. “I don’t even _know_ if the British Isles is my home.”

Belgium stares at them, flabbergasted. “Of course it’s your home! Britain lived there!”

“But _I’m_ not Britain.” They take a deep breath, looking up at all of them. “And doesn’t that bother you?”

“It does”, the Netherlands replies bluntly with a sad look, “but… you’re still a friend. And we would _never_ let a friend handle Nazis on their own.”

“I can handle myself”, they reply, “I may be a child to you, but I’m able to know when I’m in danger.”

“I _know_ that you’re self aware, but the thing is you don’t think about yourself.”

“What’s your point?”

“‘Our point’?” Denmark scoffs, as if this was the first time she’s ever heard an immortal lacking selfishness (it might be), “The point here is that we need you alive and unharmed for you to get back to the British Isles. _You’re_ the reason why our asses are on the line here.”

They sigh, “Ah, I see.”

“Too harsh there, Denny”, the Netherlands says with a smirk, and she kicks him on the shin to shut him up.

“Then I’ll go by myself”, they said, standing, their usually dead eye glinting. “Besides, some of you are injured and exhausted.”

“Do you really think you’re in match with a hundred Nazis and yourself?” Belgium asks, hands on his lap as he slouches. “You can’t even win an argument against us.”

“I broke some of their necks and shot them straight in the head; why’re you all still doubting my worth?”

Belgium stares at him, “It’s not that we doubt you— it’s that we… _doubt_ the decisions you will make when we aren’t looking.”

“But I made a decent enough plan for us to follow.”

“You _wanted_ to barge in on the Third Reich’s home unprepared, didn’t you?” The Netherlands recounts, “I’ve never seen an immortal so… _selfless_.”

“Selfless isn’t the word, Pa”, his son replies, “he just doesn’t have an ounce of self preservation.”

“I don’t care if I’m selfish or selfless; the only thing I need to do is to get the brothers back to their body!”

“But we _need_ you to get out of mainland Europe”, Hungary replies, looking actually sympathetic now, “unless you want to perish along with your elders?”

They look away, “I just wanna make ‘em proud; especially England.”

“You can do that by filling in as Britain when you get there.”

“I don’t know, England seemed quite impatient.”

“Why would you listen to fucking _England_?” Belgium asks with a raised brow, “Don’t let that guy get into your head; he’s bad news.”

“What did the others say about you coming back to Britain?”

“They were… okay with it.”

“Then they’re okay with it, there is no changing that.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

They sigh, smiling, leaning their head on the window, watching the world they know move backwards.

* * *

During the rest of their ride, all of them made a few modifications over Britain’s plan— adding things like Denmark and Belgium walking towards different directions to lure the Nazis their way, distracting them long enough for Hungary, Netherlands, and them to sneak out of the train compartment. Hungary was the person who suggested to the Netherlands to find an abandoned or not-in-use car, with them to accompany him against the Nazi-filled Antwerp streets.

“Shouldn’t we get a ticket to get to The Hague instead?” They ask, peeking out of the compartment once the train stops and the doors open, passengers flooding out. “We might get chased.”

“I’m an _expert_ driver”, the Netherlands says proudly, “I can handle this.”

“Mm yeah, an expert driver whose license was faked.” Belgium snickers in the background.

“If you were still a kid, I’d ground you.”

“Then I’ll have to hold another revolution.”

“Shh! I see people entering the emptying trains!” Denmark hisses.

Their head turned to the entrances, and she was right; men of all shapes and sizes, united under one symbol, were marching across the trains, asking the people in German whether they’ve seen fugitives staying here.

Belgium turns to Denmark, nodding. “Let’s go.”

“We gotta stir up trouble so that they would be too lost in the crowd.”

He smirks, “I already know how to do that.” He pulls out his gun from his pocket, before shooting a Nazi harrassing an old woman right in the head.

It was a clean shot, and they were impressed.

And suddenly, the rest of the people still in the train cart start panicking; enough for the Nazis to be disoriented.

Belgium nods towards Hungary, his father, and his friend. “Go now before you aren’t able to take advantage of the panicking crowd any longer.”

They nod, helping the Netherlands up and taking both of their bags (its weights were dragging them down, but they don’t complain), blending into the crowd like they were chameleons.

“I know there’s an automotive service around here somewhere”, the Netherlands says as they start running, the wind once again catching up with them.

The three managed to get out of the train cart and almost near the train station’s incident until;

“ _Es sind drei der fünf Verdächtigen, von denen uns unsere Jungs aus Westflandern erzählt haben!_ ” An officer shouts, pointing at them as they move along, trying to use the crowd as a method to escape them. “ _Nach ihnen!_ ”

“I fucking hate Nazis”, the Netherlands groans, looking back; there were at least a _dozen_ men running after them.

“I too, hate the Nazis”, Hungary replies between breaths, “where is that automotive service you kept on yappin’ about?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re _all_ close!” He replies, skirting down the steep lanes of Antwerp, with his two associates following him. “Just trust me!”

“I trust you!” They shout across the wind, ignoring the Nazis gaining in on them as they descend to lower ground.

“I don’t since we’re going to _die_!” This was the first time that they’ve witnessed Hungary express other emotions rather than his uncomfortable fascination towards them; it was entertaining, seeing him so exasperated over such a little thing.

“For fuck’s sake, we’re _all_ gonna be okay!”

Hungary turns back to the Nazis, “Not if those assholes catch us!”

“They won’t!”

“What makes you sure of that?!”

They point at a building, a blank look on their face, “There it is.”

The Netherlands winks at them both, “Good job spotting it, kiddo.”

“We need to outrun the Nazis first”, they say nonchalantly, as if running forty metres a second down a steep slow doesn’t matter to them, “how about—”

“No self sacrificing from you today”, the Netherlands cut them off, “God, if only I had my trusty bicycle with me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What are you gonna do? Out-ride the Nazis?” Hungary retorts.

“Why yes!”

“We can jump”, they say, “it isn’t that far.”

“You have a bad hand.”

“It’s our only _mostly_ safe option.”

“Just don’t hit the railings on your way down!”

Without a thought and another word, they jump, shocking the others as they make it past the rails.

“You okay, kid?!” The Netherlands calls back, actually preparing to jump.

“I accidentally landed on my injured hand, but I’m fine!”

“Okay, just stay where you are; we’re coming right before you!”

“I am going to get a sprain from this”, Hungary whispers to himself.

“Calm down, you chicken”, his friend jokes, “the kid we’re supposed to be takin’ care of is fine!”

“Ah, you mean the kid who’s already running off towards the automotive services?”

“He _what_ —” He turns towards the spot that they’ve occupied a while ago, only to find them running towards the automotive services. “Why does he _never_ listen to us!”

“It probably hates you.”

“It hates _you_!” He jumps over the railings, followed by Hungary, who tumbles over a few shrubs and low-lying branches from the trees.

The Netherlands immediately shoots at the knees of the Nazis, immediately crippling some of them. “There, that’d bide us some time, let’s go!”

“Kid, I told you to stay put!” The pair catches up to them, one indignant and one panting out of misplaced fear.

“Sorry, it’s just that someone signalled me to immediately come here”, they reason.

“That doesn’t mean you should _move_ from your place!” Their friend exclaims, “What if it was a trap?!”

They stare at him, before gasping. “I never thought of it that way before.”

He sighs, “Kid, you need to listen to people when they order you to stay put.”

They nod. “Okay.”

“So who signalled you to disobey my order?”

“Antwerp.”

Their two companions blink, as if this was a difficult answer to process. “Really?”

“I’ve seen her from Britain’s memories, but yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“She looked like the Antwerp in my memories.”

“Are you _sure_?”

“... If I say I’m sure she’s Antwerp will you let go of me?”

“But is she though, no tricks to play?”

“Why would I be lying?”

A head with light brown hair peeks out of the automotive services’ door. “ _Ja ik ben het!_ Now are you done antagonizing this poor fella, Netherlands?”

He nods, “Okay, okay, we’re going!”

Antwerp immediately leads them in the building, locking and sealing the door tightly.

“Hello, Antwerp”, they greet, lifting up a hand, “you’re not going to sic the Nazis on us like West Flanders would, won’t you?”

“No worries, I won’t”, she says, panting. “That doll’s outta her mind after what the Third Reich did to her.”

Hungary pauses, tilting his head to the right, confused. “... What _did_ Reich do to her?”

“It was like her personality shifted, ya know?” The Netherlands says, “she was really… _happy_ the last we saw her.”

“No one’s happy in these trying times”, she replies, “but there’s somethin’ else.”

They raise a brow, “What do you mean?”

“He… I think he has all the knowledge he could reach about us Immortals.”

“What are you trying to say?” They ask, stepping forward.

She laughs, “Huh, Britain, didn’t think you’d be alive after that fatal blow; the news has even been assuming you’re _dead_.”

“I’m _not_ Britain.”

She blinks, “Oh, uh… okay.” She turns to the Netherlands, whispering, “Did he hit his head or something?”

The Netherlands shakes his head. “Trust me, he is _not_ Britain.”

… It still hurts; to be mistaken for some other person again and again; they’d even feel guilty, catching themself turn when someone calls them Britain.

They’re not Britain.

“Okay, back to the story of what the hell happened to West Flanders”, Hungary drives the conversation back to the main point.

“Right; let’s just say that Flanders protested a _little too much_ and the Third Reich got his hands dirty with her.”

“... What did he do?”

“Dunno, but I’m pretty sure she brainwashed her.”

“But _how_ did he brainwash her?” The Netherlands asks, “they are not divided into half, so it would be harder to puppeteer or brainwash an Immortal whose mind is protected by the soul.”

“That’s what I’m confused about too.”

“Maybe he tampered with forbidden information?” They suggest, “After all, _only_ the people who knew how to create a fusion are the people who _suggested the fusion_. So how did the Third Reich know that by sucking out England, Scotland, and Wales’ souls from the body would make the body immobilized?”

“But he didn’t know the repercussions of removing the souls from the body, right?” The Netherlands recounts, _definitely_ avoiding using the word ‘consequence’.

“Yes… I believe so.”

Antwerp blinks, “I am… _so_ confused.”

“I also am, but more _fascinated_ ”, Hungary replies with a smile on his face.

The Netherlands glares at him, “Keep it to yourself.”

He laughs, “I am, I am.”

“Only the Ancient Immortals know the true properties of what makes up an Immortal”, Antwerp says, “we’ve had detailed texts of the concept of immortality from Ancient Lands such as Egypt and Greece, but we aren’t able to decipher them; not yet.”

Then the four of them hear thudding from underground.

They were unsurprisingly the one unsettled about the noise the most. “What was _that_?”

She sighs, walking towards what seems to be a sewer in the middle of an _automotive services_ building. She lifts the lid up, revealing Belgium and Denmark, much to the others’ relief. “You sure took a while.”

“No, _you_ did”, he replies, pulling himself up, breathing rapidly. “God, it smells like _shit_ down there.”

“ _You_ smell like shit”, Denmark shoots back, hauling him off of her. “I wanted to get out of there as much as you.”

They walk towards Belgium, helping him up, “Thank god you’re safe.”

He smirks at them, “Miss me?”

They stare blankly at him for a few seconds, before giving him a small smile. “Yeah, I do.”

He turns his head to Antwerp. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I drive you outta here, what else am I supposed to do?”

“That’s your ‘grand’ plan? Driving us _outta_ here? Sounded exciting when you said it over the phone!”

“What do you want me to do? Kill Nazis in the span of two hours and hack into their systems?”

He spreads his arms out, “ _Yes_! That’s what I thought you’d do!”

“I don’t have enough manpower to do that!”

“You can’t just drive us into The Hague like you own it!”

“I _do_ own The Hague, mind you”, the Netherlands butts in.

“Not _now_ , you don’t”, his son snaps.

“Ouch…”

“Look, I have the Third Reich’s trust in me; hell, he even gave me permission to leave my own city’s boundaries! I can get you close to The Hague, but you gotta trust me when I say this about him— he will _never_ betray you, Netherlands.”

His dark blue eyes glint with emotion, “I hope you’re correct on this one, I can’t handle more Nazis coming after us.”

_I don’t want to be betrayed by someone I trusted again_.

They turn to stare at Belgium, “Come on, let her drive us to The Hague.”

“I’m not risking my city to get incinerated.”

“Only my _incarnation_ can get incinerated, mind you. Besides, I literally told you that he gave me permission to roam around his territories.”

He sighs, “Fine, but you won’t get the Nazis to follow us, right?”

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

Belgium nods, “Alright, we’re driving to The Hague.”

They nod, “We’re driving to The Hague.”

To be honest, they’re already tired from this trip.

* * *

The trip to The Hague was — thankfully — very uneventful. Like the Netherlands read their mood, he offered to give them the passenger seat rather than taking it for himself.

“Here, you can take this”, he had said, offering the seat on Antwerp’s jeep.

“Ah… thank you.” They say, smiling slightly to show them of good faith— they were, after all, thankful for their kind gesture.

They swore they saw him blush a little. “Haha, it’s no big deal; I just figured you dislike people making unintentional contact with you too.”

They nod, “I do, thank you for being considerate.”

They were smiling at the rest of the ride, feeling good about themself. They look out of the window; unsurprisingly, there were Nazi banners floating around a few buildings, like the Third Reich is mocking Belgium for failing to save his country before it fell right into his claws. They bite their lip, turning their head to face Belgium, who had a solemn expression on his face— no doubt he didn’t want to be reminded of his failure.

“Are we close to The Hague yet?” Hungary asks, looking out the window, pulling his fedora closer to his face.

“A little more than a few minutes”, the Netherlands replies, “we’ll be able to get there unscathed, if we pass by the borders with no problem.”

“We _will_ make it past the borders.” Antwerp makes a few more turns, before they reach the borders, which was — unsurprisingly — surrounded by Nazis. “All right guys, now act like Nazis and keep your faces hidden, but not too hidden.”

All of them did the things Antwerp asked them to do; the Netherlands pushes his hair back, Belgium puts on a uniform of a Nazi, they sit upright, trying to imagine how they would look as a prideful, patriotic, and Aryan-loving Nazi.

A guard stops next to Antwerp’s window, “ _Was ist Ihr Geschäft_?”

She clears her throat, “ _Ah, meine Freunde hier wollten nach Den Haag, weil ihre Familien dort sind_.”

“ _Warum sollte ein Unsterblicher wie Sie Sterbliche zu ihren Familien eskortieren?_ ”

They swear under their breath— they’ve got a point.

Antwerp gulps, “ _Sie sind die loyalsten Bürger des Dritten Reiches in ganz Belgien, daher ist es wahrscheinlich meine Pflicht, sie zu einem letzten Abschied zu ihren Familien zu begleiten._ ” She turns to them, signalling them to do the salute.

“ _Gegrüßet seist du dem Dritten Reich_ ”, everyone says with a fake douse of enthusiasm, hoping that the Nazis wouldn’t notice it.

They feel like vomiting; this is the second time they’ve said that, and they are closer to death than ever.

The officer glares at them with dark brown eyes, before sighing, turning to his comrades, “ _Lass sie passieren!_ ”

They all take one collective sigh of relief, especially when Antwerp starts driving past the Nazis.

“Didn’t think they’d fall for us being ultimate fanboys”, Denmark says.

“Well, Nazis are fools like that”, Antwerp says with a look of humor, “because they’re all fanboys for a dictatorial regime.”

“I suppose it’s smooth sailing from here on out?” The Netherlands asks, stretching his limbs while yawning. “God, I’m tired.”

“Go lie down the road if you’re so tired, then”, Denmark says, rolling her eyes. “Either the Nazis would kill you, or predators would mistake you for a dying deer and tear you apart piece by piece.”

His eyes widen, and he sits up straight, “I’m not tired anymore.”

“You’ll have all the rights to be tired once we get to The Hague.”

He leans forward, “Oh?”

“The Hague got you guys a bedroom.”

“With single beds?” They ask hopefully.

She bites her lip, “Yeah.”

“He hates making contact with others”, Belgium explains.

“You don’t… need to explain that to her.”

“Sorry.”

“We rest in The Hague before we get to Amsterdam— your capital there is willing to help y’all.”

The Netherlands crosses his arms, “Hopefully.”

“Are we sure that the Nazis won’t be able to think we’re _not_ Nazis?” They ask.

“Well, the Dutch don’t like the Nazis”, Antwerp replies.

“Because _I_ don’t like the Nazis”, he snaps.

“I can’t wait to get to The Hague”, Belgium says, before turning to his dad, “we need to get your wound nursed properly.”

“It was just the bullet _grazing_ me!” He replies with a groan, “It doesn’t need anymore attention!”

“You were bleeding.”

“It stopped!”

“We still need to redress your bandages; I’m pretty sure that’s been there for a few hours.”

The Netherlands grumbles, crossing his arms.

  
  


“Once again, I can’t believe we’re back in something as prestigious as a hotel again”, the Netherlands says, jumping on one of the beds with his arms and legs spread, sighing. “I miss beds.”

“You were in a bed hours ago”, Denmark says, emerging from the bathroom only wearing her undershirt. “And I have to sleep in the same room with all of you again.”

“Not like you have much of a choice”, Belgium says, lying at the bed he chose, staring at the ceiling with an unreadable expression, “just be happy.”

“I’m not happy, but I _am_ content.” She rolls her eyes, smoothing her light blonde hair, putting her folded uniform in her bag. “At the very least we’re going to get warm and freshly cooked food.”

“Our food in our bags is getting so lonely”, the Netherlands sighs dramatically, “too bad I’m not into trail mix.”

“I liked the trail mix”, they say, plopping themself on their own bed, “and I like getting my _own_ bed.”

“We know”, Belgium replies, laughing. “When are we supposed to meet The Hague?”

“About seven in the evening.”

“Then we better freshen ourselves up”, Belgium replies, “who wants to go shower next?”

They didn’t raise their hand; they were okay with being the last to shower, since it gives them time to prepare themself to look and touch their body, especially _there_. They sigh, staring at the walls as the Netherlands runs to the bathroom while saying a Dutch phrase that they tuned out.

They wrung their hands, looking down, sighing. Maybe they should contact their three masters to tell them that the journey would be delayed.

Why would they be resting?

They have _multiple_ jobs to do.

They look around; everyone seems to be adjusting well, though.

They blink, why couldn’t they relax too?

Was it… so hard for them to relax?

They groan, throwing their head back into the pillows— they were _not at ease_ , even when their backs collided with soft blankets and mattress, unlike that uncomfortable and bumpy one back at the sewers. They can still feel their heart beating like something is lurking in the shadows, their eyes darting back and forth, a heavy feeling in their body.

They’re… _envious_ of how light-hearted their pals seem to be, laughing and playing with each other like they were not in a time of peril.

They wished that they could be like that, just for once.

Out of the corner of their eye, they see Hungary sitting down on the bed next to them.

“You’re quite the troublemaker”, he says with a laugh; they didn’t know what was so funny about that.

“What’s so… _funny_ about that?” They ask, sitting up with a raised brow.

“You don’t take orders from anyone, do you?”

“I do”, they reply, “... I guess I only take orders from England, Scotland and Wales.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s _not_ ”, they bite back, “I’m not some… experiment or information enhancer that you can get your hands on; I’m just a… body.” Their limbs went slack at their words.

It was already clear to them and the others that they have a soul.

But why do they keep insisting that they were just a body?

What is _wrong_ with them?

Hungary tilts his head, before giving them a sympathetic look. “You have a soul, because if you don’t have one, you won’t be alive by now.”

“I’m not having this conversation right now.” They turn away, “I’m too exhausted.”

“I see.” He clears his throat, and they hear someone shifting on their blankets. “But I’m always up for talking.”

“I’ll remember that.”

_Why would I talk to someone who makes me uncomfortable_?

  
  


“Thanks for the dinner, Hague!” The Netherlands says, eating as much as he can, stuffing his face up.

“Netherlands, where are your _manners_?” Denmark asks, disgusted at the way he gobbles his food up like a starved child.

“I admire his way of not caring for what the others think of his eating habits”, they remark, indulging themself with a bowl of soup.

The Hague turns to them, “You seem to have lost plenty of your appetite, Mister Britain.”

They blink, “I’m not—”

“It’s not Britain”, everyone answers at the same time before going back to eating their food.

Huh.

It seems that everyone — including them — was used to them being called Britain and correcting the person assuming that.

They smile inwardly as they take a taste of the soup. “This is delicious.”

The city laughs, “Thank you, Mister Not-Britain.”

They laugh, “Just call me anything, I wouldn’t mind.”

(They were more concerned of how they would not mind being called names that fluctuate every time someone different comes to the picture.)

“So, what’s the current news going ‘round here?” The Netherlands asks, busily chomping down on his dinner.

The Hague gives them a certain look, “Well, that Britain is dead; it’s almost always on the headlines.”

“That news is a week old!” Belgium exclaims.

“Seems that the Third Reich just wants to flaunt his success of taking down a so-called indestructible empire”, they muse, “Well, I can see why.”

“Y-You’re not supposed to be taking an asshole’s side...”

“I wasn’t— I was just putting my own two cents there.”

The Hague laughs, “You’re a weird fella, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am.” They take a bite out of the pastries, “I love your cooking.”

He winks, “Why thank you, you ever-so kind fella.”

“We should replace our trail mix with every dish we have to eat”, the Netherlands exclaims, “that’d make our journey _much_ better.”

“It won’t get any better when _you_ keep tagging along with us.” Denmark rolls her eyes.

“I like having him on our journey”, they vouch for their friend, “they’re so nice.”

The Netherlands’ cheeks start to taint the color of red. “Really?”

The Hague raises a brow, before chuckling, “Ah, you both must be good friends.”

They nod, “Yes, good friends.”

“So, Hague, how are we gonna get to Bremen?” The Netherlands asks.

“Through the sewers.”

He blinks, “Through the _sewers_?!”

“Keep your voice down”, his city replies, “we will never know when a Nazi is listening.”

“Why are we gonna go down the sewers?”

“So that we could get to Odense _undetected_ ”, Denmark replies, “or did you forget about that plan?”

“I just thought it was ludicrous!”

“But it’s the _only_ way!”

He raises up a finger, ready to argue back, before sighing. “You’re right.” He turns to the Hague, “When do we leave?”

“First thing in the morning, so you better catch some z’s tonight.”

He groans, “Why always ‘first thing in the morning’?”

They tilt their head, “So that the Nazis wouldn’t catch us in time.”

“ _Not_ why I’m asking.”

The group all laugh, digging in to their meals, whilst they watch with a smile on their face.

They eat more of the food served towards them, like an appetite has appeared deep within them. Their tongue savors the food with even more splendid adjectives, even describing their textures as they chew on it, internally criticizing their meal.

They chuckle at some of the jokes that the Netherlands had said, they get worried when Denmark chokes on something for laughing too much, they smile whenever Belgium looks at them, and they acknowledge that Hungary exists.

They were… _enjoying_ it.

Enjoying what, the meal?

No.

Enjoying being _alive_.

They shake their head, trying to snap out of it; _you’re not supposed to get attached_.

After all, they’re about to bid farewell to them once they retrieve the souls back.

For some reason, they have a heavy heart once they remember their task, like they were Sisyphus carrying a large boulder across a mountain with all his strength.

Why did they have to be so nice to them?

* * *

“Stop pretending that you’re dancin’ and walk properly!” Denmark chastises the Netherlands, who was jumping up and down the sewers with a disgusted look on his face.

“ _You_ land on a pile of shit and see how you like it”, he replies, scraping his shoes off of the ledge. “You’re all lucky that I went first.”

“Because you wouldn’t let me go first”, they reply behind him, turning a flashlight on.

“Yes, because you might scream bloody murder when you step on _shit_.”

They stare at him, “You were the one who startled me when I was climbing down.”

His face tints with red, averting his gaze. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“You made me fall.”

“That’s an exaggeration; I only made you stumble as you went down.”

“Enough to almost fall onto the pile of shit.”

He laughs, “That’s fair.” He turns to the Hague, “How far are we from Bremen?”

“A few miles if we were in a car, but a thousand if we’re walking.”

“We’re gonna _die_ in a shit-filled sewer rather than in a battlefield.”

“You already _died_ in the battlefield.” Belgium looks at the two intersections, before following the Hague.

His father sniffles. “On the inside.”

“... You’re actually right.”

“Well, this body I’m taking over right now was dead for a few days, and then… not anymore.” They retch once they accidentally step on a puddle of what _looks_ like water but in reality they don’t know if it _is_ water.

“Once again, you’re _alive_ ”, Belgium replies, avoiding dripping water from the ceiling with a disgusted look.

They press their lips into a thin line. “For now.”

“Don’t be gloomy, my pal, we’re gonna bribe England to let you stay in that body.”

They roll their eyes, “Funny.”

They all stay silent as they walk, with the Netherlands occasionally making jokes or some letting out a noise of disgust after stepping on mildly dubious things whilst walking. Some even chatter quietly, like what the father-and-son pair are doing.

They prefer not talking to anyone; it’s detrimental to their energy.

Unfortunately, _someone_ decided they look lonely enough to conversate with them.

“You know, you can’t keep avoiding me forever”, Hungary says, sliding up right next to them. It seemed like a few or so hours after everyone fell silent, so they slightly jumped at the sound.

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Then talk to me.”

“Why should I?”

“I know you’re having mixed feelings about everything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that I don’t know, but you won’t talk to me.”

“Why are you getting me to talk to you?”

He sighs, “I think I need to apologize for the way I behaved with you, I suppose. I was… too fascinated to see a fusion’s vessel have their own sentience just like that. I did not consider your feelings, or how uncomfortable you are with me, and for that, I apologise.”

They blink, before turning away. “... I guess I can talk to you now.”

He chuckles, “When you’re comfortable enough.”

They turn to him, “I don’t like being in a body that doesn’t even belong to me.”

He raises a brow, “Technically, it _does_ belong to you, you just didn’t get to use it when it was first crafted.”

“But I was not the person who crafted this body; England, Scotland, and Wales did. Therefore, it is theirs.”

“Then what does that make you?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you think that this is your rightful body?”

That question is… _tricky_ to answer. “It may _be_ my body, but it doesn’t _feel_ like it.”

“Oh? Elaborate.”

“It’s just— the body makes me uncomfortable, like something is missing and that every time I go to the showers I avoid touching myself _there_.”

“It is because those three brothers were the ones who made the bodies, correct?”

“Yes, and I know I should not complain, but my body does not _feel_ like a temple right now.”

He laughs, “All bodies are not temples at first; it will become a temple when you are finally comfortable with it.”

“I’m not comfortable with my body at the moment; what about you?”

“I’ve been comfortable with my body ever since I was born.”

“For sure?”

“Always has been.”

“I’m jealous.”

He chuckles, “You don’t need to be, my friend.”

“What about that time you were fused with Austria? How did that feel?”

“Oh, like I’m sharing a room with an annoying person who liked music too much.”

They snort, “Don’t be so harsh on Austria.”

His face hardens, “Well, he’s collaborating with the Third Reich because he wanted power back, so I have every right to insult him.”

“How… unsurprising, to say the least.”

“Hm?”

They smile, “It seems that Austria still hasn’t been humbled after suffering a humiliating defeat.”

“ _Ausztria_ is like that— desperate to still be in the power ladder, despite losing everything he’s got. He only cares about power that he didn’t even stop when it hurts the people he loves.”

“Interesting analysis.”

He shrugs, “I got it from twenty years of being fused with him; being a fusion can lead to one finding out about your secrets and insecurities when you’re not careful enough.”

“Did he ever find out about your insecurities?”

“Not that I know of; I am emotionally stable, he is not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say he never talked about his many mistakes to anyone, and keeps it to himself like a dam of emotions swelling tighter.”

“Ah… so he is miserable?”

“Something like that.”

“Being a fusion must have been strange.”

“It was, but I learnt to overcome it.”

“It must have been a fever dream for you.”

“I guess you can say that.”

The two of them smile, and their heart was put at ease; Hungary did not seem so bad after all. He was… more relieving to talk to than their other friends about this kind of thing, since despite the fact that they are not a fusion, they are still a fusion of bodies.

“To be honest, you are quite relieving to talk to.”

“I have that effect on others.”

“I can see it.”

“What’s your goal once you arrive in Britain, then?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You did imply that you’ve gotten dreams about England, Scotland, and Wales.”

“Well, they’re not dreams, per se… more like they are messaging me from the weapon.”

“Well? What’re your goals?” _It’s hard asking two questions in a row_.

“Uh… comfort the British populace before going back to Mainland Europe to continue the fight?”

“... Seriously?”

“What?”

“ _That’s_ your plan?”

“What do you want me to do, then?”

“That is such a half- _baked_ plan!”

“I just give them a speech, and then I’m going back to win the war for England.”

He sighs, “You’re not allowed to go anywhere, _unsupervised_ after this.”

“What?! Why? I literally just told you my plan!”

“Friend… Do you know how dangerous it’d be once you came back to the mainframe? You’re not even experienced in this kind of thing!”

“Who _cares_?”

“England does?”

They stop walking, before glaring at him. “You got me.”

“Didn’t think that England was enough for you to go scared.”

“It’s more like… I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“What an unsurprising reason.”

“You don’t _get_ the feeling; he hates me.”

“He hates everyone.”

“I don’t _want_ him to hate me.”

“Which is understandable.”

“I just need to retrieve him from the Third Reich; then he would like me.”

“What would happen if you successfully retrieved him from the Reich?”

“The best case scenario is he gives me a chance and lets me stay in the body; the worst case scenario is they kill me.”

“Oh? You think that ceasing to exist is a ‘worse case scenario’?”

_Shit_ . “Well, nobody _wants_ to die.”

“I believe you, but would you rather spend your days non-existent, floating in the vast space, or spend time in that large body with three other occupants once you retrieve their souls?”

They stop walking.

Hungary turns towards him, “You stopped.”

“I just thought I stepped on something.”

“Or are you considering the fact that even when they let you live your life, your thoughts and actions would never be as private anymore? Or the fact that once they unfuse, you will cease to exist until they regain their fusion?”

They start walking again, but this time they felt… _heavy_. “Why would you be thinking of my predicament like that?”

“Your ‘best case scenario’ means that you want to live.”

“Why is that so important?”

“You need to learn about the precautions of living; especially with someone like England.”

“You don’t _get_ to do this to me; I haven’t even made my choice yet.”

“But which choice sounds appealing to you?”

They do not reply; they don’t want to kindle his flames any higher.

“I suppose this conversation is over.”

“It is.” Without looking back, they went ahead and inserted themself in Belgium and Netherlands’ conversation; much to their surprise, the father-and-son duo welcomed him with open arms.

(Too bad they’d be leaving them.)

(Would they?)

* * *

After a quick dinner in Bremen (which was uneventful as they all kept a low profile while eating), they bid farewell to the Hague, and they went on their merry ways as they finally reached Odense.

“Dinner made me quite stuffed”, the Netherlands says with a sigh, “and now I’m _too_ full.”

“Maybe you’d be better as animal stuffing then”, Denmark snaps, pushing on a twig before letting go of it, hitting him right in the nose.

“ _Ow_ ! That _hurt_! Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re getting on my nerves.”

“No, _you_ are getting on my nerves!”

“Can ya love birds shut up? We’re tryna be all stealth-like here.” Belgium leans across a tree, taking a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Where did you get that?” They ask.

He smirks, “It’s always been here; I just haven’t found the right time to smoke.”

“You’re lucky we’re alone; the Third Reich _hates_ smoking”, Denmark replies, taking a peek, only to find a herd of red deer grazing. She smiles at them, “Cuties.”

“We’re not here to sight-see, Denmark”, the Netherlands’ statement immediately makes her smile fall off her face.

She glares at him, “I _know_ , I was just appreciating nature. However, you and your son are not, when you go and smoke in my forests.”

The Netherlands and Belgium stare at her, already lighting up their cigarettes.

“It’s a stress reliever”, the older one states, putting the cigarette in his mouth, before blowing out a puff of smoke.

“You’re _loitering_.”

“It’s a _forest_.”

“It’s _my_ forest.”

“Not right now, though.”

They glare at the Netherlands, “That was unprecedented.”

She nods, “What it said.”

“Apologies about my father, he gets inconsiderate when ecstasy is involved.”

“This isn’t even ecstasy.”

“When a _stress-reliever_ is involved.”

“You’re both lucky I have self control.”

“We’re lucky too!”

“We’re only going to be sleeping in the forests before getting to Odense, since we do not have my cities vouching for me out of fear of getting caught by the Reich; so we’re sleeping here for the night.”

The Netherlands plops down the forest bed, “Yes, very comfy.”

“... This is why we brought sleeping bags.”

“Still so uncomfortable.”

“I suppose we need to start making fire”, they suggest, turning their head towards the sun, “it’s going to get dark soon.”

“I’ll help you”, Hungary replies, and they internally groan; he really liked getting on their nerves.

However, they can’t say no. “Fine, we can go together.”

He smiles contently, “Excellent.”

“Come on, there’s gotta be some stray firewood lying around here.”

“Be sure not to disturb the animals that live here!” Denmark calls out.

“We won’t!”

The two of them walk deeper in the forest, but not that deep, since they might get lost, and they did not want that.

They managed to find a few twigs and branches, but not thick enough to be considered firewood; they sigh, _what does firewood look like_?

“Here.” They hear Hungary call to them, and they walk towards the man, who — miraculously — found wood thick enough to support firewood. “It’s _drenched_ , though.”

“Well, better than nothing.”

He laughs, “You seem quite content with that.”

“What do you want me to do? Throw a fit?”

“That would be quite an image.”

“You can hang it up a wall, if you’d like.”

“I will, after we’re done carrying this towards the camp.” With a grunt, Hungary lifts up a pile of logs, legs shaking. “Mind helping me?”

“O-Of course”, they reply, before grunting and losing grip over their legs as Hungary gives them half of his load. They’ve never carried something _this_ heavy before. “H-Heavy.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

They take their haul back to the group, who was already setting up camp.

“Where do I put this?” Hungary asks.

“There”, Denmark replies, pointing at a circle of pebbles a few meters away from the main campsite. “They’re all wet, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, probably from the rain that just occurred here this morning.”

The Netherlands sobs, “Why does the universe hate us?”

Denmark rolls her eyes. “... You’re going to light the wood up on fire.”

“What?! Why me?!”

“You’re just getting on my nerves today.”

“No, _you_ are getting on my nerves!”

“Can we eat the deer?” Belgium asks.

She glares at him, “Catch one and I will cut off your fingers.”

“... _Okay_ , no deer for dinner.”

The Netherlands huffs, “But I _want_ deer! I don’t want fancy trail mixes or left overs!”

“Well too bad, you’re about to eat your own food.”

“Which is boring, since the food’s cold.”

“Stop being picky and _stop_ acting like a child.”

“I’m going to act however I like!”

“Congratulations, Netherlands, you get a free trip to the asylum.”

“I’m not _that_ insane, excuse you.”

“Then get that fucking fire going, or I’ll kill you and feed your remains to the soil so that deer would be able to feed on you.”

“Denmark, that was _graphic_.”

“Just get to it.”

  
  


“I didn’t think leftovers would be so delicious.” The Netherlands chews on his dinner, recently reheated after _finally_ getting the fire going after ten times on lighting it up with his lighter.

(All of them have been quite entertained by the Netherlands swearing in Dutch and screaming after he unsuccessfully lights the fire up.)

“You were literally whining about how leftovers would be so cold.” Denmark replies, sitting near the fire with a content look on her face.

“I’m a changed person now after these struggles.”

“Probably because Belgium convinced you to eat”, they joke and elbow their friend jokingly, who chuckles.

“My dad is thick-headed, unless he's talking to his kids.”

“Way to go, telling everyone my weakness.”

Everyone laughs, and the air of worry and tension dissolves.

Hungary leans onto them, “I wish to continue our conversation from the sewers.”

They frown on their plate, “We have nothing to talk about.”

“We have a _lot_ of things to talk about.”

They sigh, “Like what?”

“Like the things that have been bothering you lately.”

“You’re not my psychiatrist.” _Another new word; pleasant_.

“I don’t need to be one to tell that your mind’s all mixed up.”

“I want to eat as peacefully as possible.”

“It’s already been thirty minutes but you still haven’t eaten a morsel.”

They looked down onto their plate, and they were right; they still have not eaten a single bite for the past half hour, whereas everyone else is finishing up their meals. “I might have gotten distracted due to how happy I am at the moment.”

“You feel happy?”

“Yes, happier than I’ve been in the dank underground. I suppose the wildlife around here is responsible for my happiness.”

“Do you feel relaxed?”

They take a bite out of their dinner; for some reason, it has no taste and its texture was rough and like clay. The food had been delicious when they took their first bite, but now it tastes like it came back from a witch’s cauldron. It took them their all not to spit it out in front of everyone. They gulp after a few minutes of agonized chewing. “There’s still a heavy feeling in me.”

“And why did you think this heavy feeling resides in you?”

They take another bite, not wanting the food to go to waste, “I- I’m not sure, it just started becoming more noticeable after I started feeling… _happy_.”

He tilts his head, clearly interested in where this is going, “You’ve never felt the feeling of happiness before?”

“Well I did, whenever I’m talking to either Belgium or the Netherlands, but it was a slight enjoyment sprinkled in with little excitement. When we were having dinner with The Hague, however, I felt all of your happiness in a single room, and that… made me feel _happy_.”

“But it did not last long?”

They turn away, “Yes, because I remember my current goal and the reason why I was alive in the first place.”

“Which is?”

“The Third Reich completely humiliated the United Kingdom, toying and playing with him until he unleashes the biggest insult of all— taking all the souls inside the body completely, and leaving the body to become enveloped with a new soul.”

“Which is you.”

“Obviously.”

“It is interesting that you consider yourself as ‘the biggest insult’ to Britain. Is there a reason _why_ you feel that way?”

“The answer is already in your and _everyone_ ’s eyes; I do not belong here, and all of you are in this dangerous quest just to get a body back to the British Isles, which I don’t even call a home.”

“But you’ve had a dozen memories of Britain being your old host’s home, right?”

“But it _doesn’t_ feel like home— I’m not drawn to the idea of living there, not yet.”

“And what makes you think that you do not belong here with us?”

They lock eyes with him, something that is uncommon and rare of them to do. “Because I am not like you; I wasn’t born by natural means, I was born because a vessel is empty and it needed a soul to control it right away.”

“So you are saying that you are like no other immortal on this planet?”

“I don’t even think that I _am_ an immortal.”

“Do you have any evidence supporting that assumption?”

“... I do not.”

“Then you still belong here, with everyone.”

“How would you know that?”

“They like you, do they not?” He looks over to Belgium and the Netherlands, laughing and joking with Denmark.

“They do, but the Netherlands had told me that he had only wanted to see his dear friend Britain.”

“And that hurt you?”

“Yes, because I realized that no one cares about me.”

“But did his sentiments about you change?”

“Yes, he considered me… as a _friend_.”

“What about Belgium?”

“He had been cold at first, but in our very first conversation we learned some deeply upsetting things about ourselves.”

“You both connected immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re not an outcast when the majority of people here are familiar and have a good time with you.” He smiles, “Including me.”

“It’s not that— it’s the fear of being perceived as annoying or standoffish whenever I interrupt a conversation or stay silent in one.”

“That just means you are socially inexperienced.”

“I just… _think_ that I am not good enough to intrude in a conversation, because I have nothing left to say. But people don’t seem to like that.”

“Well, I’d say that it’d be better keeping your mouth shut rather than saying something drastically stupid.”

“Are you saying that I’m stupid?”

“No! No! Not like that! I just think that you have… no sense of preservation and have no brain-to-mouth filter?” He gives them a small and tense smile, but they are not having _any_ of it.

“That just sounds like you’re avoiding saying the word ‘stupid’.”

“Being naive is not the same as being stupid.”

“Think of something right now, then I’ll guess what you’re currently thinking of.”

Hungary raises a brow, before shrugging, “Alright.”

A second passes.

In a heartbeat, they already have an answer. “You were thinking about the weapon that removed England, Scotland, and Wales’ souls from my body, correct?”

“Um…” _I was actually thinking of főzelék_ . “You are right.” _After all, I’ve been interested in that too_. “Now, do tell of how the Third Reich managed to do the impossible.”

“According to my memories, it started when Britain was starting to get… _desperate_ at trying to win against the Third Reich. Then after he had crushed his hand, he pulled out a weapon; something that looked a lot like a dagger… but is not actually one.”

“Can you describe it for me?”

“I was getting into that.”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying, this dagger looked… _strange_. Its hilt is pure silver, but its blade looks like glass— slightly thicker than any kind of natural blade, yet it seemed to have enough strength to pull three souls into it. It had a craving on its hilt, but it just spelt ‘Deutschland’. Then there are some sort of seven symbols in the blade, but I am not able to make it out.”

“Interesting, please continue.”

“Then as you know, the Third Reich lodges that thing into Britain’s eye.” They cringe at the memory as their hand shows Hungary the now patched-up wound. “And things go downhill that moment.”

“You winced when you recounted about that memory; are you able to feel the pain Britain had when he had been stabbed?”

“Yes, but that’s not the subject of the conversation right now.”

“My apologies.”

“Back to the main subject here, he removed Britain’s eye but he would not back down; he activated his weapon and sucked the living soul out of the body. But… there was something there, before the Third Reich’s weapon completely absorbed them; the body _said_ something.”

He raises a brow.

“It said… ‘I can feel them tugging at my insides, refusing to let go’.”

“... Interesting; do you know who said that?”

“It was… a rather strange memory, because… it was not Britain who spoke.”

“Do you know who it could’ve been?”

They shake their head, “I do not think that it had been any of the brothers.”

“Was it… _you_?”

“Pardon?”

“Were you the one who said it?”

They sit up straighter, “What? I haven’t even been _alive_ until just a few days ago!”

“Perhaps… your body was not aware that you have awoken?”

“I literally said that my soul formed only a while ago.”

“Yes but… would it be possible that you were — hypothetically — already _conscious_ when the Third Reich was abducting those three from you?”

They roll their eyes, “I’ve only been alive for a week!”

“But there might be a trace of your soul in this body even before it was emptied out.”

“Plausible.” They continue to eat, the flavor of the food returning and sailing straight to their taste buds.

“Continue the story.”

“Then… I guess with the last bit of consciousness and soul elements left in Britain’s body, he shot the Third Reich.”

“Plenty good that did then.”

“It went right through his heart.”

His eyes widen, almost spitting his drink out, “ _Impossible_.”

“For some reason, he lived.”

“Are you sure Britain did not miss?”

“The bullet passed right through him; there was a hole in where the bullet came in, so I am sure that I had hit him.”

“... Morbid.” He thinks for a moment, not having the right time to gather all his thoughts right now. He was shocked, yes, the ugly kind of shock where he is faced with the harsh reality— but this is even _worse_. “But he is still human.”

They scoff, “Oh please, I shot them right through the heart and he still lived.”

“He is still immortal just like us, but I believe as a full immortal.”

“Must’ve gained the Seven Continents’ power to get that strong.”

“Perhaps.”

The crickets let them sleep peacefully at night, during a cool spring night.

* * *

“When is Sweden going to get here?” Denmark paces around the docks, waiting for a boat from Sweden to arrive.

“Maybe he left you on read”, the Netherlands snickers to himself.

She glares at him, “Then that would be bad for _all_ of us, asshole.”

“Hey, calm down, t’was a jest.”

“And you know what the biggest jest would be? _Your face_.”

They snigger, putting their binoculars (used to find Sweden) down, “Okay Denmark, that may be harsh, but it was actually funny.”

She crosses her arms, smirking proudly. “I am _always_ funny.”

The brunt of her joke huffs, “You are _not_.”

“I _am_.”

“You know what the biggest joke is right now, then?”

“What?”

“Sweden responding to your letter.”

She whacks him on the head.

“That actually _hurt_!”

“Stop being an idiot, then.”

“Ugh… women hit so hard.”

She rolls her eyes, “Because you whine like one.”

“Let’s just focus on trying to find where the hell Sweden’s boat is, alright Pa?” Belgium sighs, having enough of his father and Denmark’s arguments. “This is the only kinda water that the Nazis don’t monitor at night.”

“We’re going to get lucky when Sweden gets here.”

Hungary sighs, “So much for picnicking in a forest where Nazis are almost non-existent.”

“What a shame, they still exist.” They jest, going back to trying to set sights on Sweden. “Hm… still no light.”

“You’re really gettin’ sociable with us”, Belgium points out, drinking a bottle of water.

They blink, “I didn’t notice that; maybe I’m getting comfortable with all of y’all.”

The Netherlands feigns a sniffle, “It even adopted our slang!”

“I guess I’m just so used to you talkin’ without letting others take turns.”

“If you feel that way, then start yappin’ more!”

“Naw, I might wound all of your pride.”

“Wow, you’re wounding me.”

“A natural part of our lives, Netherlands.”

Denmark laughs, “It gets it.”

“For someone who only started living a few days ago.”

“I got used to it.”

Hungary laughs, “He really _got_ used to us!”

Their smile falters, still disliking being called a ‘he’, “Because I have no choice but to put up with you all; actually, can y’all stop yapping and start searchin’ for our ticket outta here?”

“Aw, already fillin’ out his leader roles.”

“Am not.” Then they gasp; something moves across the distance; a silhouette in the darkness of the night.

“What’s a matter?”

“Something… something moved across the night.”

Denmark stands, “Is it Sweden?”

“I do not know yet.”

“I sure do hope it’s Sweden!” The Netherlands takes out his binoculars, taking a peak, before muttering a Dutch swear. “Ah, it _might_ be Sweden, hopefully.”

Denmark snatches his binoculars from him, “How can you say something like that so nonchalantly?”

He winks, “I’m not fond of exaggerating my feelings, you know.”

She puts the binoculars on her eyes, before gasping, crimson red eyes shining against the darkness of the night. “It _is_ Sweden.”

“It’s too dark to see the boat against the night”, they state, “don’t get your hopes up.”

The Netherlands snickers, “Killjoy.”

“Not like you aren’t one.” Denmark watches the silhouette of the speed boat coming closer and closer towards the harbor; she was sweating at every inch of her body, knuckles turning white, then breath hitching when the speed boat stops right near the docks, its driver clamboring out of it.

Belgium immediately shines a flashlight on the newcomer—

“ _Hallå!_ ” A mop of golden blonde hair blocks the newcomer’s face from the light, but everyone — even them — knew who that voice belonged to.

“Sweden”, Denmark approaches her friend, relieved, “I-I thought you wouldn’t—”

“Look, I _am_ scared of the Third Reich”, Sweden says, looking down on her, “but… I’m also rooting for you guys to win.”

“You could’ve gotten caught.”

“ _Danmark_ , you sent me a letter and _asked_ for me to come here, with the cost of my life.”

“Fair.”

He nods to everyone, “You can thank me for saving you later, when we get to Malmö and get y’all rest before the journey starts.”

They nod, “Thank you.”

Unsurprisingly, he stares at them, bamboozled. “ _Storbritannien_ ? I thought you were _dead_!”

The others awkwardly laugh, “It’s a long story that we’ll tell you later.”

He slowly nods, before climbing back on the boat, “I’m pretty sure that Nazis heard me zipping through here, so we gotta hurry in, quick!”

All of them immediately board in the speed boat;

This is their first time in a speed boat— even Britain has never even been in one, due to thinking it was unethical and gets him wet every time he is even near one.

A small matter of pride lurks in their chest.

It immediately fades when Sweden starts up the vehicle again, replaced with a surprised yelp as it rips through the waters with an agonizing speed.

* * *

**BRITAIN REMAINS MISSING A WEEK AFTER DUNKIRK**

London sighs, staring at the current headlines of the day’s paper, before turning to the other cities. “I suppose that we do not have any good choices left.”

“It’s time to tell the entire population”, Glasgow solemnly replies, the most solemn that the city has ever been, “that Britain is… _dead_.”

“We don’t have concrete proof that he is dead”, Manchester replies, pounding his fist on the table, “he is just _missing_.”

“And Britain has never been ‘missing’ before!” London shoots back. “He’s never been missing for- for a _week_!”

“Maybe he has a minor inconvenience and is making his way here now?”

“He’s _dead_! I saw- I saw that bastard do something to him and made him fall to the ground, lifeless!”

Stirling stands, “You _left_ him while he was unconscious?!”

“I did _not_ leave him while he was unconscious; he was already dead!”

“How would you know?!”

“The Third Reich — that dagger he stabbed Britain in the eye with — it unleashed a colorful aurorae, unlike anything seen on earth—”

Glasgow interrupts, “What the hell is that supposed to—”

“What I _mean_ is that the Third Reich took England, Scotland, and Wales’ souls from the body!”

Everyone falls silent.

Then they start to murmur to one another.

Manchester turns to London, “The Third Reich really did that?”

London nods, shaking. “He did, and it was so… _beautiful_ , the way the souls were forced out of the vessel, but then I remember that would mean that we would not have a leader anymore.”

“You didn’t _try_ to fight back?”

“There were a ton of Nazis there, blocking me off from my destination.” He buries his face in his hands, “If I’ve gotten there sooner… he wouldn’t be killed.”

Glasgow groans, “Don’t go playing the victim—”

Manchester cuts in, “Hey, it was not your fault you weren’t able to get there fast enough, chum.”

Liverpool sighs, standing. “I presume we must tell the entire British populace the truth about what has happened to Britain?”

London nods, still sobbing. “We can’t keep them in the dark forever.”

He nods, his face serious. “Then… we tell them tomorrow, and the entire world shall know.”

* * *

The winds were messing up their hair again, even showing strangers their eye patch.

They do not like the way they stare at them, like they were an outsider.

They purse their lips, waiting for the others to prepare and come with them to one of Sweden’s trading boats.

They just hope that the Nazis will buy the fact that this was an export boat.

If not… well, they’ll just have to battle to the death.

They shiver as another gust of wind blasts towards them; just how cold was Scandinavia? According to Britain’s memories, it was cold, enough for him to wear his wooliest clothes into bed. They look up at the sky— there were only grey clouds for the day, which was not helping their crappy mood at all. They start to tap their foot, almost unconsciously, humming a few English compositions to help pass the time.

What’s taking them so long? Perhaps they got distracted due to the hot water and bathtub in the room that they were sleeping in?

_Well, if that’s the case, I don’t blame them_.

“But I’ll certainly start blaming them when they don’t show up for another minute!” they whisper under their breath, wrapping their coat around them, marvelling at how warm and cozy it is.

“Oi! Why didn’t you wait for us?” The Netherlands immediately comes into their view, wearing newer and warmer clothes.

They keep their eyes on the ground, “I was getting impatient.”

“There was no need”, Belgium comes into view, then Hungary, and Denmark, all wearing newer and warmer clothes.

“The bathtub was — admittedly — satisfying.” Hungary smiles.

Denmark chuckles, “I lost track of time with that one.”

“Yes, it was quite satisfying, but I did _not_ waste all of the hot water.”

“Oh please, you were _definitely_ playing in the tub when I came-a-knockin’.” Belgium smiles, standing beside them, making sure that he was not overriding their boundaries.

They like him a lot.

“By the way, where’s Sweden?” The Netherlands asks, looking up.

“In the ship”, they reply, “tryin’ to make ends meet.”

As if on cue, Sweden’s head appears from the aft, “Y’all, come in here, we’re ready to go!”

The Netherlands beams with excitement, “Nice!”

The group excitedly climbs up the steps of the ship, last being the nameless vessel.

They look at the sky, then back at their group with an indifferent face.

Their friends had two names; their immortal and human names.

To have a name means… to attach themself into this world.

“Alex.”

The group turns toward them, faces confused.

Belgium blinks, “Did you say something?”

They look up at them, their remaining grey eye glinting. “‘Alex’ had been Britain’s human name; it means ‘defending men’. I guess that suited me enough; you all said I needed a name, and well, here you go.”

They finally let loose of their anchor.

The Netherlands shrugs, “Eh, it works.”

They stare at him, “Is it that bad?”

“What? No, I guess we’ll just have to get used to calling you Alex from now on.”

Alex smiles, “Thank you.”

* * *

Luxembourg was busily reading a book, tuning out the clamor of the entire populace in the London City Hall; they were all noisy, but the thoughts in his head were even noisier, like an aeroplane. He turns to another page, getting enticed by the plot and the characters, especially the protagonist; it has an identity crisis, its entire life split into two halves. He is currently rooting for the new guy, to say the least.

He was seated right next to the British cities, which was a luxury to him.

But he missed his old home, and he had to get back to them sooner or later.

His father had not even replied to his letter yet; did something happen to him?

He shakes his head, continuing to read. _Nothing bad will happen to Mother, Father, and my little brother_.

He prays to the Seven Continents that they would fight back against the Nazis _safely_.

The door opens, and he puts a finger to the page where he is at and closes the book, turning to see London in a very formal attire staring at the crowd with an anxious look.

“You ready?” He asks him with a nonchalant look.

He takes a deep breath, “Somewhat— telling the entire populace about their immortal’s death is… _hard_.”

“It’s okay”, he reassures him, “it is a rather… _painful_ subject to bring up.”

“We may not be innocent, but conjuring their memories up is still a pain.”

“You’ll do great.”

London gulps, “I sure hope so.”

He walks over to the podium, fiddling with his tie, and he goes back to reading his book again.

His dark blue eyes shine with interest at the paragraph he was in. He smiles as he analyzes the passage over and over again.

_Ah, I see; the reason why your lives are split in half is because you cannot choose which of your life is true, and which one is a lie_.

Then he scowls as he turns to the next page and reads the next one.

_Did you really have to bring your_ mistress _up_?

The protagonist in this story is… morally ambiguous, but he cannot help but feel sorry for his predicament, even if it had been his fault in the first place.

_He needs to make a decision that will save himself_.

He hears London tapping on the microphone, no doubt starting the speech he had prepared, but all he is focused on is whether or not the protagonist is the hero or the villain of the book.

_Maybe he is both_.

_How can he be both_?

“Pleasant morning to you all!” London greets, with the hint of shakiness in his voice. “I do hope you all had a wonderful week!”

He had a wonderful week, because he got his hands on such a simple yet complicated story; a trope done right, a trope beautifully and carefully written, like the writer had been writing real people.

London clears his throat, hoping to calm the people down. “The reason that we are here today is because we have had current news stations printing the same issues over and over again: the news that our current immortal, Britain, is missing.”

The crowd started to flood the poor city with questions, and the noise was almost deafening Luxembourg’s ears, distracting him from his peaceful reading.

_Great… now I have no clue what he meant when he cannot get across a bump_.

_Why would he give up when there’s a bump on the road_?

“Settle down, settle down!” London says, putting a finger up, “I suppose we have not been honest with all of you for a week or so.”

_Was the protagonist a child, giving up when there is a tsunami headed straight towards him_ ? _He is supposed to seek high ground, not play the hero and wait it out_!

_Come to think of it, what has a tsunami got to do with the novel_?

“On June 4, a week or two before today, we Allies lost a hard battle against the Axis”, he starts, staring at his speech, “the price was paid with the annexation of the countries of Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Belgium, and France.”

He did not care about the fact he was mentioned, he cared about how the chapter he had been reading ended so ambiguously.

He groans, he had to reread everything just to comprehend what was happening.

“But us Brits also paid the price; our own immortal, Britain, fell in battle once the Third Reich gained the upper hand.”

The crowd gasps, and a few reporters jot down notes, clearly intrigued by how this article would affect Britain.

“We have agreed to tell you because—”

Like the wind decided to flow backwards, the door slams open, _loudly_.

Luxembourg flinches, and the other cities turn back towards the door.

The government-in-exile grits his teeth, “Hey! Can’t you see I’m reading—” He shuts his mouth as he sees his father (!), his younger brother (!!), Hungary, Denmark, and…

He gasps, almost dropping his book if he had no sense of decency.

“ _Britain_?”

The vessel smiles at the cities, “It’s a long story.”

“Remember, Alex: _lie_ that you _are_ Britain!” Luxembourg’s father calls towards them, and they wave in return, tapping a pale London (who looks like he’s seen a ghost) in the shoulder to get them to move.

“Hello?” They tap the microphone;

He blinks, before looking at his family.

“I miss y’all!” He exclaims, standing from his seat before embracing his family, who embraces him back, chuckling. “I was so worried that something happened to you!”

“The only thing that happened was a road trip”, Belgium says, pointing his thumbs to the guy on the podium, “had to get him here.”

“You found Britain? He is _alive_?”

All four of the vessel’s companions look at each other. “Er, not exactly.”

Denmark turns to them, “Let’s just hope that it tells them the half-truth.”

“Bet you ten bucks that our man Alex would tell the truth.”

Hungary sighs, “We’ve been over this!”

Once they — Alex, Luxembourg supposes — got the attention of the crowd, they start their own speech,

“Technically, I am not Britain.”

Luxembourg and by extension, all the other cities blink in confusion. He turned to his peers, confused, and was surprised to see some of them teasing or making faces at each other.

“Ha! I knew it! Oh Denmark, you owe me money!”

“Why is it _so_ impulsive?!”

“I’m not even surprised.”

“I’m not surprised, but I’m sure as hell disappointed.”

They take a deep breath; too bad they only practiced this in their head, and… not in front of… _crowds_.

They really want to be alone after this.

“I am not Britain, for I am a new soul created when this body — this fused body — was empty. I started existing in the wrong place and time, and I had no memory of what happened after the Battle of Dunkirk. That is, after someone found me, took me in with people that were just as confused as me, mistaking me as Britain when I am, clearly, not Britain.”

They sigh, before continuing. “England, Scotland, and Wales came to me in a dream; it seems that they do not want me to coexist with them. England states that my only goal in life was to retrieve them from the Third Reich. Why, and _how_ did England and the others manage to contact me, you ask? It is because the Third Reich absorbed _all of their souls with the use of a weapon_. And the weapon was… the reason I came to be alive, apparently.”

“I’ve been feeling a _lot_ of mixed emotions once I was taken in by the others; they only wanted to see Britain, but unfortunately, I am not Britain, and I behave rather strangely than them. I felt… alone even with them as my company at first, because I do not know how to properly connect with strangers, despite having all of Britain’s memories handed out to me like a gift. Even I cannot connect with the woman Britain loves the most.”

“I don’t even know whether or not it is my fault that your three immortals have been abducted, but I think it is time to show the Axis that we are _not_ giving up; that we are _not_ going to surrender against someone like him. Even if we are all alone as the only remaining member of the Allies, he will still face our wrath, and we will _win_ the war that he had started, and take back the lands that he had taken from our friends!” They raise one of their arms, and the crowd cheers.

“And if you are listening to this, Third Reich...”

The Third Reich’s claw-like hands scratch his wooden desk, listening into the radio.

“Brace yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 28.2k which is the longest part for now  
> also this took me two hours to edit yesterday eugh  
> Translation:  
> Gegrüßet seist du dem Dritten Reich- Hail to the Third Reich  
> Was geht dich das an, Dünkirchen- What is your business here, Dunkirk  
> Ist Vichy hier- Is Vichy here  
> Ja, die Madame sagt, sie wartet auf Sie- Yes, the madame says she is waiting for you  
> Ah, danke, dass Sie mich benachrichtigt haben, Sir- Ah, thank you for notifying me, sir  
> Sie sind willkommen und können fortfahren- You are welcome and can continue on  
> Danke nochmal- Thank you again  
> Und wer sind das- And who are they  
> Meine Freunde, Kapitän- My friends, captain  
> Und was geht sie das an- And what is their business here  
> Sie wollen, dass Vichy meine Stadt verlassen darf, Captain- They want Vichy's permission to leave my city, Captain  
> Aha. Na worauf warten Sie dann noch? Unsere Herrin wird ungeduldig- Aha. Then what are you waiting for? Our mistress is getting impatient  
> Qui est là- Who's there  
> Pouvons-nous entrer- May we enter  
> Y a-t-il d'autres personnes avec vous- Are there other people with you  
> Oui, quelques personnes avec moi souhaitent obtenir votre autorisation pour sortir des frontières françaises- Yes, some people with me wish to obtain your authorization to leave the French borders  
> Je vois; Amenez-les, Dunkerque- I see; bring them in, Dunkirk  
> Guten Morgen meine Herren! Entschuldigung, dass Sie so früh am Morgen hineingelaufen sind, aber ist die Stadt De Panne hier- Good morning gentlemen! Sorry for walking in so early in the morning but is the town of De Panne here  
> Au revoir et sois prudent aussi, Dunkerque- Goodbye and be careful too, Dunkirk  
> J'essaierai- I will try  
> Jó estét- Good evening  
> Jó éjszakát- Good night  
> Gib dich jetzt hin, du Verräter- Give yourself up now, you traitors  
> Een indringer- Intruder  
> Se, hvor du skal hen- Hey, watch we're you're going  
> Train pour Anvers, tous à bord- Train for Antwerp, all aboard  
> Es sind drei der fünf Verdächtigen, von denen uns unsere Jungs aus Westflandern erzählt haben- It's three of the five suspects our boys from West Flanders told us about  
> Nach ihnen- After them  
> Ja ik ben het- Yes it's me  
> Was ist Ihr Geschäft- What is your business  
> Warum sollte ein Unsterblicher wie Sie Sterbliche zu ihren Familien eskortieren- Why would an immortal like you escort mortals to their families  
> Sie sind die loyalsten Bürger des Dritten Reiches in ganz Belgien, daher ist es wahrscheinlich meine Pflicht, sie zu einem letzten Abschied zu ihren Familien zu begleiten- They are the most loyal Third Reich citizens in all of Belgium, so it is probably my duty to accompany them on one last farewell to their families  
> Lass sie passieren- Let them pass
> 
> note to self: never mass translate sentences again


	4. PART IV: CLIMAX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.  
>  **TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of abuse and sexual assault**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about this being a day late, real life happened  
> well, this is the end of this one-shot! thank you all so much for commenting and supporting my work :D i hope to see you in other one-shots  
> i'm sorry if this feels rushed. i didn't enjoy writing the fourth part in a few sections (since you can see that a few parts seem lazy), and i just wanted to prolong it just so i can write the lore behind countries and UK's character developing

**PART IV: CLIMAX**

_ “There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body's sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.” _

Alexander Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

An hour after Britain — or  _ whoever _ that was — gave the Third Reich a warning, Austria came running towards his office to tell him about the news; unfortunately, he had already heard about the little warning in the radio, from what he can tell about the current state his office was in. Once he had opened the door, the office was a mess: the wooden desk full of scratches, papers that had been neatly stacked in a pile on the floors, curtains shredded, and every single piece of furniture broken.

Austria inhales, unsurprised at the mess in his office at this point (he usually thrashes his own office whenever he is high or whenever he has one of his petty anger outbursts, all of which he is used to by now). “I suppose you have heard what Britain said over the radio, Third Reich?”

His great-grandson turns towards him, neck cracking; he jumps at the sound, of how unnormal and unsettling it was. His sharp teeth were showing, his emerald green eyes full of madness. He approaches Austria, looming over him like a shadow of doom. “ _ Obviously _ .”

He gulps, “What are we supposed to do, then? Your plan failed—”

“My plan  _ did not _ fail!” He bellows, seething; Austria wasn’t surprised by their petty outbursts anymore as well. “It succeeded until it didn't!”

“That  _ is _ the definition of failure!”

“I  _ did not _ fail!”

“But Britain is still alive, and he is currently gathering an army—”

“Didn’t you hear what that abomination said over the radio?”

He blinks, confused, “Pardon? Why would you call Britain an abomination?”

The Third Reich scoffs almost condescendingly, “I see, you haven’t  _ listened _ to what that thing said on the radio carefully.”

“I do know that Britain is alive.”

“You senile fool! That was not Britain talking, that was Britain’s  _ body _ speaking to the British masses! Britain’s three main souls are still with me, trapped in that weapon!”

Austria crosses his arms, already exhausted. “Then if that was not Britain talking, what are we supposed to do in this situation?”

“You idiot, the abomination that is standing between us and complete victory is just a  _ body _ ! It is inexperienced, stupid, and it  _ will _ crumble once you poke and prod it enough, to the point that it will surrender.” He smirks, already planning something. “I believe that I already have a few plans to bring this man down.”

“Would you mind… sharing it with me?”

The Third Reich scowls at him, “Aren’t you supposed to be looking for a cure to West’s disease?”

He hates being reminded of that— admittedly, he did not even  _ want _ to experiment on West anymore, since he’s already realized that it cannot be cured. “Y-Yes, but—”

“Then  _ leave _ my office; I do not want you to slack off on your own work just because a hindrance came into play.”

He sighs, “Of course;  _ Abschied, Drittes Reich _ .”

Once he closes the door, the Third Reich’s head is already brewing with several plans to take that abomination down.

He was angry; of course he was.

He bares his teeth; did England, Scotland, and Wales plan this?

He stares at the weapon, still glowing with the colors of his captives’ souls.

They are still here with him, in this office.

So  _ what _ was that thing in Britain?

Then he remembers something from the back of his mind.

When he was reading through the ancient book about the properties of Immortals, some of those old and worn out papers were already turning into dust; it could  _ still _ be salvaged, of course, but he fears butchering the runes once he transfers the knowledge of this ancient world into a newer and useable cover. There were sections in the chapter of fusions where the runes were so indecipherable that he could not translate it into the German language, or there were sections where the papers were just torn apart, much to his frustration.

When he had read the section where he can potentially beat a fusion by taking their souls, he had been ecstatic; finally, he can defeat Britain by doing something as impossible and implausible as this!

He did not even notice that there was half of the page missing, but he did not mind; after all, Britain will still fall.

He had only thought that once he takes away the souls of the fused body, everything will fall apart quickly.

He was…  _ wrong _ .

So wrong.

There are consequences for his actions, and that abomination appearing in the radio is one of them.

He turns towards the knife, glowing happily and brightly underneath the glass case.

He assumes that they are celebrating.

He scoffs.

He walks towards the weapon, carefully lifting its glass case, the glowing lights illuminating his face in the dark room.

His emerald eyes glint with fascination. “You all have been keeping secrets from me; mind telling me more?”

* * *

Canada came over the United State’s apartment this morning for the both of them to have a cup of coffee together.

Which also means that he is here to deliver one of the most obvious news she has heard recently.

“Did you have your radio turned on last night?” He asks, stirring his cup of joe, his dark green eyes shining with what seemed to be like hope.

She rolls her eyes, “‘Course I had it on; I would be dyin’ of boredom if I haven’t turned that little slicker on!”

He laughs, “You didn’t lead men into your bed that night?”

“Wasn’t in the mood for that.”

“So you heard about London getting his speech interrupted by an intruder?”

She looks at her nails,  _ clearly _ uninterested. “Yeah, I heard— he was about to confess that he lost our dad to the Third Reich, right?”

Her brother nods, “Yeah, and before he can make the confirmation that Britain  _ is _ dead—”

“Which was our ongoing hypothesis for two weeks straight”, she interrupts.

“Someone interrupts him by just…  _ barging _ in all willy-nilly.”

“Dad.”

“That was not our father.”

“I know, but he just…  _ sounds _ like our father that it even put  _ me _ off, you know?”

“He does, but he is different from Britain; remember what he said?”

“Yeah, yeah, the new guy said that he woke up in our dad’s body after our dearest father was defeated by the Third Reich which is… an  _ unfortunate _ situation for him.”

Canada rolls his eyes, drinking his cup of coffee. “Show some respect, that new soul is  _ still _ a remnant of our father, just… bland? Blank? Too truthful? Too…  _ hopeful _ ?”

She stares at him, “Since when did you start reading between the lines? And how did you even manage to analyze someone we’ve never even met just from listening to their speech  _ once _ ?”

He shrugs smugly, “I have my ways.”

“... We’re going to schedule a meeting with him, and Australia and New Zealand can come tag along with us if they want to.”

Canada looks up, surprised. “Wait, what? We’re going to meet with him?”

She stands, taking her cup of coffee, and also her coat. “I’ll just have to call London to see if he can hook us up with getting us a meeting venue with our new dad.”

He snorts, “‘New Dad’? You’re not serious, aren’t you?”

She smirks, already dialing the operator on the telephone. “What do you think?”

He opens his mouth, before rolling his eyes. “You  _ are _ serious.”

“I just like jesting around to confuse people like you.”

“Obviously.”

* * *

They were on a loop for a few hours after they did their little speech in front of the masses.

They were… rather disconnected from their surroundings after that little predicament.

Water from the bathroom’s faucet drips, and they hear it all the way from the bedroom.

They turn, grumbling to themself as they make themself more at ease using the pillow and the blankets.

They don’t want to wake up.

There’s a reason why the curtains in their room are drawn shut.

It’s too early for this.

Too early for what?

Too early to grow tired of life when they had just started living, of course.

So Alex  — reminder that this body finally named themself — keeps their eyes shut, still wanting to remain in the realms of the sleep, as it is the only thing in their mind that is serene.

Except when their mind gives them the worst dreams possible.

Why do dreams exist?

Do they exist just to make them suffer?

They sigh, already hearing the clamor from the outside. They turn away from the windows, putting a pillow over their head, as they continue to imagine their thoughts coming to life.

Another unwelcome experience comes to their mind; the past.

The past is like a snake; it crawls on its stomach, staring at their prey with slitted eyes, before striking and coiling around their neck when they are too distracted to even notice the lurking danger around the environment. And then it strangles their prey, making them vaguely overwhelmed and gasp for air once they start getting desperate.

That’s what keeps happening to them, once their mind is blank and their brain has a good idea of making them remember the most foolish of things that they have done.

Honestly, Alex hates their mind the most.

It gives them the worst ideas, but it gives them the most carefully crafted and well thought out kind of images of them getting killed or dying.

Their imagination is hard to quell, so they force it to focus onto something else — beating up the Third Reich.

They smile;  _ that’s better _ .

What’s not better is the fact that they still want to sleep but  _ can’t _ .

They’re frustrated because of that.

They already hate being at home, in this cold apartment.

Is this even home?

This doesn’t seem like one.

Maybe it doesn’t feel like home because it  _ isn’t _ their home in the first place.

Or probably because the apartment was so…  _ empty _ .

There was barely no furniture here, only a dining table with two chairs near the kitchen, a few cupboards that only hold tea and nothing else, a small sofa, a bed and a wardrobe in the bedroom as well.

It looked… bleak and sad, back when they had first moved in a few hours ago.

Or… when they were  _ forced _ to move in Britain’s apartment by the other cities, mostly by London.

That rat.

They can’t believe that they are about to think this, but they  _ loathe _ this apartment to the bone.

It’s just not it.

It’s just not very homely.

It’s bleak, dank, dark,  _ lonely _ .

There is a difference between being lonely and being alone.

But in this small and lonely apartment, they couldn’t even  _ tell _ the difference.

Maybe because France is not here? According to Britain’s memories, everything was bright and happy whenever France was in his apartment.

They blink; they still do not feel a thing for France.

It’s not like they  _ don’t care _ about her, it’s more like… they can’t see themself in a relationship with her.

They don’t know why.

One thing’s for sure, they don’t like France in a romantic way.

They  _ can _ see themself being friends with her (if she stops going out of her way to insult them), but for the life of them can’t imagine the both of them doing the things that she and Britain had done.

Then a very unnecessary thought enters their mind.

_ They had sex on this very bed _ .

They open their eyes in surprise and fall over, swearing in their head because of such an unneeded thought.

They land on their ass, a frown settling on their face, lips pursed.

It seems that their morning is now ruined.

Sometimes, they hate their brain.

They groan, getting up, still in Britain’s pajamas.

(It was cute; baby blue-striped pajamas.)

They look at the wall clock, trying to tell what time it is.

“Seven-thirty in the morn”, they grumble, “still too early.” They stare at the bed with a vaguely disgusted look; they are  _ not _ sleeping there anymore.

_ Maybe the sofa is more comfortable to sleep in _ ? They think to themself, carefully folding the blankets (with red roses printed on it), and putting it on top of the bed, while also fluffing the pillows up to their very soft shape. Their stomach grumbles; the fifth time in the past hour.

Their hunger was impatient, and now they need to cook something up to eat.

Alex opens the fridge, and much to their frustration, finds the entire machine empty.

They groan in frustration, closing it and returning to the cupboards to make tea for themself; after all, tea is enough to sustain an empty and hungry stomach.

That was not sarcasm.

They heat up the water using the kettle, before opening the door from outside their apartment to find a newspaper right in front of their slippers.

Well, they  _ are _ bored, so a newspaper will do.

They collect the newspaper from the entrance of their apartment, before reading the news of today’s headline;

**BRITAIN BACK IN ACTION**

They furrow their brows a little from the headline — once again, they are  _ not _ Britain.

But they’re glad that this headline was on the front page; soon all of Britain can have hope that they will win the war.

They were so busy being lost in their thoughts and reading the recent issue of the day that they forgot that they had been boiling water; only when their ears started to ring did they notice that the kettle was already steaming. Running towards the stove, they turn it off, pour the hot water into a teacup, and immediately put a teabag into it, loving the way the  _ plop _ sounded.

They lean onto one of the wooden chairs, swinging their legs as they take a deep breath while reading the newspaper.

This is quite a serene morning.

They slap their brain shut; they are  _ not _ about to jinx their morning.

To repeat; they do not like their brain.

They take a sip, admiring its sweet taste, and how earthly it is in their lips.

They smile to themself, enjoying what is left of their serene morning, which is… not much.

They only got a few hours of sleep— well, it was enough to heal the circles under their eyes. They were not able to sleep properly last night because they were plagued with thoughts of what happened yesterday, and how foolish they had looked at from the crowd below them.

They shudder; they just locked their lives into a cycle of having to entertain large crowds forever and ever.

They sold their soul to the immortals, forever basking in the unneeded fame that they have brought upon themself.

(Maybe he can still get out of it by immersing themself into the mortal populace, hidden forever amongst the mortals; they wouldn’t even suspect a thing.)

Their ears ring, and they take another sip of their tea to ease themself.

They look at the clock; they’d have to meet with the other cities at 9 in the morning.

They bite their lip— but they do not want to come to the meeting.

But they promised their companions that they would attend the meeting; their group had been the reason why they were not hoarded by reporters and journalists, blocking the entrances and exits with their pestering and nosy questions.

They may be doing their jobs, but the way they phrase their questions were insensitive.

They do not like reporters.

They look at the newspaper in their hands.

They also do not like newspapers.

Their mind was coddled with many emotions and they sigh, wanting to skip the meeting. But what could be a good excuse? Should they tell them they are still too tired? No, they would not buy that; even when Britain is sick, he’d make it to a meeting, no matter how small or important it was. What if they tell them they were sick? No, they had been healthy and  _ fine _ yesterday! They sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose.

It seems that they are going to the meeting, then.

They already hate the concept of attending a meeting.

It has too many people; too many  _ strangers _ .

And they have to talk in front of  _ every single one of them _ .

They shudder; they do not like this.

But they have to— they  _ promised _ .

They only hope that their friends were also there, keeping them company.

God knows they need it.

Their lips tremble; they are too weak-willed for this.

If only they had been Britain.

They shake their head, trying to clear their mind; unfortunately, they are  _ not _ Britain, as the fusion’s three souls were abducted by the Third Reich.

They are someone else now.

They have a different name.

They wonder if they can masquerade as Britain long enough to win the war.

They think for a moment; they doubt it.

But they have to try, for England, Scotland, Wales, the cities, their allies, and Britain’s people’s sakes.

That is a  _ lot _ of lives at stake.

All the more desire to win this war, no matter what.

They stare at the clock; it was quarter to eight.

Will that be enough time to buy groceries?

Because the fridge looks _frustratingly_ _empty_ for their tastes.

They groan in frustration.

They’ll just have to drive to a convenience store to get food.

* * *

Luxembourg was reading the novel with the gripping storyline in the entrance of the city hall again, waiting for it to open. It was going to be boring, staring at the streets full of people wary of what will happen to their country once the war swallows them whole, a nightmare festival. But he is here, seated on the top of the stairs, reading two pages per minute, fully engrossed in the story.

The writer knows how to pull his heart.

But sometimes, he gets impatient.

_ When will this tear-shedding novel end _ ? He asks himself, flipping the pages until the end.

His eyes widened; “Three hundred more pages?!”

He already read three-hundred pages in a matter of a week, due to how busy he was.

And he has to read  _ three hundred _ more?

He thinks about his dilemma for a moment, before going back to being immersed by the beautiful language and writing around the novel,  _ Nice _ .

Someone clears their throat, and much to their irritation, they look up, before coming face-to-face with Britain.

Or, as his family said:  _ not Britain _ .

Alex smiles down at him, “Good morning, Luxembourg.”

He stands, nodding. “Good morning, Britain.”

They smile, “Haven’t your family told you that I am technically not Britain?”

“Well, they did, but it’s still  _ difficult _ to wrap my head around a concept like that; it sounded like it belonged in a fictional novel.”

Their remaining grey eye (he remembered that their other eye was removed due to fighting the Third Reich) stares at the book tucked on his arms. “I can see that; do you believe me when I say I’m not your former teacher?”

“Of course I do.”

They nod, “Sorry for getting aggressive towards you.”

“No worries, though I do worry about what I should call you since you are not Britain.”

“Just Alex; no formalities between us, please.”

“May I shake your hand?” He raises it in anticipation.

“That counts as a formality, and I am not enthusiastic about touching.”

He drops his hand, “I see. Are you here for the meeting, Alex?”

“Yes, I am. Am I too early?”

He glances at his wristwatch, “Well, you’re late by Britain’s standards.”

They laugh, “I suppose if Britain was here, he would be shouting at me for being late.” They look towards the entrance, “Do you want to come in now?”

He shrugs, “Sure, the entire world is noisy as of this moment now.”

“Agreed, I don’t like staying outside much longer than I need to.”

“Then we should head indoors to keep a clear head.”

“I was about to say that.”

The both of them enter the building, and Luxembourg’s thoughts are currently a mess. He was curious; no, curious was an understatement. Many thoughts were swirling around his mind, brain cells taking note of Britain’s — no,  _ Alex’s _ — personality at every perspective. His light blue eyes study them as they walk in the hallways, trying to find anything unusual or vaguely interesting about them.

He finds a few things noticeably different about them immediately.

They walk slower, less confident than Britain— there’s already a contrast. They were fiddling with their fingers, humming an English lullaby as they looked upwards at the ceiling, studying the lights; Britain held his head high, his strides confident and fast.

They were the  _ opposite _ of what he was used to.

Well, that was interesting; Alex was the Hyde to Britain’s Jekyll.

He decides to make small talk with them, “Do you have any hobbies?”

He must’ve been loud, since Alex jumps in surprise.

“Ah, I’m sorry, was I too loud for you?”

“Well, yes, but it was my fault for spacing out.”

The two of them walk quietly towards the meeting room; they still have not answered his question, and he doesn’t like being ignored. They reach the door towards the meeting room, and much to his dismay, the entire room sounds like it’s already in chaos. He sighs, clutching his book; it will be a pain reading through the meeting.

“I have no hobbies for the meantime.”

He turns towards Alex, “Hm?”

They were still looking at the door, like it was a temptation, “I don’t have any hobbies at the moment.”

He grimaces as he hears his father shouting in the room, “Oh, I see.”

Without another word, Alex knocks on the door, and — thankfully — the noise stops. They lightly smile at the sudden silence, and open the door, being greeted by cities and rebel countries watching them. They quiver underneath their eyes, but they manage to find a seat between Belgium and Denmark, the former  _ definitely _ glaring at the cities.

They gulp, “Good… morning, everyone. I do hope that you all had a pleasant time sleeping?”

London nods, sorting through papers, “Yes we… slept well.”

“You’re late”, Manchester prowls, silently judging them, “Britain is  _ never _ late.”

Their remaining eye twitches out of irritation. “I got here five minutes before nine, and I arrived in this room  _ exactly at nine _ , so therefore, I’m not late. And besides, don’t compare me to Britain, it's a large insult towards the man himself.”

Manchester scoffs, rolling his eyes.

They put their briefcase down the table, before sitting. “So, what’s today’s business?”

“It is about the Third Reich”, London replies, finally finding the paper he needed for the meeting. He takes out his glasses and begins to read, “The Channel Islands have surrendered to the Germans.”

Many whispers were heard across the room, mostly from alarm and shock.

“Although we saw this coming, it just shows how powerful the Third Reich really is.”

“Or maybe it is because we were caught by surprise.” Alex speaks up, heads turning towards them. “The Third Reich is… tactical and cunning, I must admit, but this should be the last time he uses the element of surprise.”

“Then how are we supposed to fight against him?” Cardiff asks for the first time since the meeting started, “we are all alone, our allies already under the Third Reich’s control.”

The Netherlands coughs aggressively, “ _ Excuse me _ , we’re literally right  _ here _ .”

Cardiff stares at him, “I meant allies that have not been invaded by the Nazis.”

“But I’m sure that the people who’re not happy with the Nazis controlling their land will resist against them.”

Manchester crosses his arms, “Is it enough to fight the Third Reich?”

“It  _ is _ , if you put your head out of your asses for once.” Alex replies.

The Netherlands nods, “What he said.”

“We are  _ not _ getting anywhere with this”, London mutters, sighing. “Does anyone have any idea on how to intimidate the Third Reich, or…?”

Liverpool puts his face in his hands, “We’re going to die.”

Alex looks at him, “Why do you think that?”

“Because instead of sending Britain over here, you sent  _ this nut job _ .”

Belgium stands, “Hey, stop being an arse, we’ve been over this!”

“Why would you give us an inexperienced vessel in replace of Britain?!”

“What, do you want your _only hope_ to get Britain back, perish at the hands of the Nazis?!” Hungary joins in, completely irritated by how close-minded they were.

“This was the reason why we were arguing in the first place a few minutes ago”, Denmark says in a calm voice, “you people start critiquing someone you have not met yet, and then immediately start whining about how we are going to lose.”

“We would not be complaining if you got Britain back here first!”

Belgium sighs, “The Third Reich is too strong as of now, so we  _ need _ a plan to take back what he stole from us, not to storm in the capital and fuck shit up!”

Liverpool glares at London, “It’s  _ your _ fault that Britain’s souls were kidnapped in the first place!”

The blamed sputters, “M-Me?! W-What?!”

Alex was the only person who was not going to speak up during the argument (aside from Luxembourg, who was currently hiding underneath the table to read without being disturbed), terribly conflicted with the various opinions and arguments that had been happening on both sides, like they were currently debating their existence. They furrow their brows, completely frustrated; they hate feeling like they have to  _ justify _ the reason why they should exist, why they should be treated equally.

They feel…  _ angry _ .

They want to slap some sense into Britain’s cities— were they  _ that _ reckless when it comes to people who are not Britain? Were they disrespectful enough to throw in words and reasons why they should not exist?

For the past few weeks, they have been debating on whether or not they exist— it doesn’t feel good for their existence to be debated, especially with people who  _ barely _ even knew them.

Only  _ they _ get to think whether or not they should not exist, not other people who are practically strangers to them.

Everything makes little sense once you experience it in person.

This is dreadfully sickening.

It’s making their morning and mood even worse though, enough to invite a few self-esteem issues in their mind.

Honestly, they were going to explode at this point, the noise and arguing getting louder, and so do the thoughts circulating around their mind.

They’re not exactly a very open person when talking about negative feelings.

They abruptly stand, staring intensely at the table, and the conversation stops; of course it stops, they think that they are angry, that they are annoyed at the current debate and argument going around them that they should not exist.

And they are, inherently, right.

But Alex was not going to explode right in front of them; they’re good at stewing in their anger, something that they have been doing ever since these conflicting feelings started swirling in their mind.

Then they leave, without looking at any other person in the room.

* * *

“Sorry about arguing with the cities back there, mate”, the Netherlands finds Alex first, sitting at the top of the stairs of the building, sulking. He sits right beside them, a comfortable distance between the two. “They keep on grinding on my nerves.”

“It’s okay, I don’t care.”  _ I do care _ .

“Yes you do”, their friend says, sighing, “you walked out of the meeting room with an intense expression on your face.”

“I had to clear my head.”

“It’s okay to say you’re angry, ‘cause I’m here for you to talk.”

“But I don’t  _ want _ to be comforted— besides, I’ll get over this in a few hours or so.”

“This must be a terrible way to start the morning.”

“It already got terrible when my brain immediately thought about Britain and France having sex in the bed I slept in.” They decided to try and make the mood lighter; they do not want to talk about the reason why they’re angry.

It works, since the Netherlands snorts, “Must’ve been one hell of a realisation.”

“I’ve been thinking of sleeping on the couch lately until I washed the bed sheets.”

“You’re a conservative fella.”

“Are you calling me a prude?”

He laughs, slapping his leg, “You caught on so quick.”

They smile, trying to hide the inner turmoil that they are facing in their head. “Well, that isn’t a lie.”

“You’re just a kid in an adult’s body, so I guess it’s understandable why you would freak out.”

“I swear you guys are never going to give up with those ‘kid’ jokes.”

“Because I wanna make you feel better.”

They glance at him, “Hm?”

“You’re  _ definitely _ pissed.”

“I am, but I just wanna be alone at the moment.”

“Ah, so you’re the type to bottle it in, huh?”

“I’m not going to lose composure in front of people who already lost their composure as they’re yelling about my existence.”

The Netherlands hisses, like he was in pain. “Yeah, I understand that… that is a painful experience to go through.”

They stare right ahead, “It makes my morning even shittier.”

“You swore.”

“That still  _ surprises _ you?”

“You’re just growing up so fast, you know?”

“You are fondly irritating; keep doing that and we’re going to be friends for a hundred more years.”

He raises a brow, “You want me to be your friend forever?”

They shrug, “I mean, why not?”

He smirks, “We should make a man-only group, you know?”

“Why are you doing this to yourself.”

“Because it’s  _ fun _ .”

“How is  _ this _ fun?”

“Hey, about time I find y’all”, Belgium makes his way towards them, before sitting right beside Alex. “What’re you two up to?”

They open their mouth, ready to answer vaguely—

“Alex realised that Britain and France had sex on the bed he was sleeping in”, the Netherlands cuts in. He laughs, slapping his leg. “The funniest shit I’ve heard in awhile.”

Belgium rolls his eyes, “Yeah, dad, haha.”

“You don’t find that funny?”

“I do, I’m laughing internally right now.”

“... I don’t buy it.”

Alex smiles, “It’s alright, I laugh internally as well.”

The Netherlands rolls his eyes, “Too bad that I laugh externally.”

“Sometimes your feelings are best hidden, Netherlands.”

“You’re funny.”

“I am not.”

“You were being serious?”

Belgium laughs, throwing his head back, hair bouncing over his eyes. “Since when is he not?”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah I can… see that all across your face.”

Belgium smacks his dad’s shoulder. “Don’t discourage him, father; he’s still learning.”

“I am  _ not _ discouraging him.”

“Yes you are.”

“Don’t worry Belgium, he was not discouraging me; those cities however, were.”

Belgium rolls his eyes, “Those cities were needlessly rude towards you.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you can control people’s fates, Alex.”

“And it’s not like you can control what’s going to happen to them— what are you, one of the Seven Continents?”

“They’re all sleeping.”

“I know, I was just comparing how they perceive you towards them.”

The Netherlands leans back, basking in the sunlight, “So you wanna come back to that shitshow? Or do you wanna bail?”

Alex thinks for a moment, “Well, Britain would  _ never _ bail during a meeting, not even when those cities are pulling on his strings.”

Belgium raises a brow, “But…?”

They give their friends a small smile. “I am not Britain.”

The Netherlands laughs, “That’s the spirit!” He stands, before looking back at his friend and son. “Now let’s go ditch this boring and insensitive meetin’!”

For once, Alex was…  _ happy _ to go against Britain’s moral and disciplinary conduct.

They can already hear Britain yelling at their impulsiveness, but it was muffled, more of a whisper in the wind.

-

“Wait, the United States of America, Canada, and the Dominions of Australia, and New Zealand invited me to have dinner with them?” Alex asks over the telephone, definitely surprised.

Why would Britain’s children ask them over for dinner?

The hand holding the telephone shakes.

They have a bad feeling about this.

“Of course they do, they are eager to meet the person in their father’s body now!” London replies, sounding stressed and exhausted.

“Well, I don’t really have anything to do, so what time, day, and place are we going to meet as a happy family?”

“Your daughter said she and the others are flying towards Britain as we speak”, he replies, “said that she wants to meet you at Leicester Square, the day after tomorrow, at exactly seven in the evening!” He receives radio silence from the end of the line. “Oi, pal, are you even listening?!”

“I  _ am _ , I was just having a hard time processing this!” Alex states. “First disastrous meetings with your lot, and now a meeting with Britain’s  _ family _ ?!”

“You’re making it sound like we mistreated you, pal”, he says, “we’re still learnin’ about your existence, and maybe that’s the reason why we’re so hostile to you. Don’t go overreacting and assuming that we were treatin’ you like you were the enemy.”

They take a deep breath; they are so  _ done _ with this immortal business. “... Alright, tell the United States that I am okay with having dinner with her and the rest of Britain’s children.”

“Already on it.” Thankfully, London hangs up, because Alex is  _ so close _ to throwing the receiver all the way down the apartment.

How does Britain handle them?

What was his  _ secret _ ?

And more importantly;

Will they last against Britain’s children’s judgement and questions?

Their legs tremble at the thought of it all; they’re not ready for this.

They’re not ready for a confrontation between them and someone else’s children.

After all, they have… a  _ ton _ of memories of Britain… not being a good father to his children.

(He isn’t even a  _ decent _ father, as far as he can tell.)

Alex looks at themself in the mirror; they were roughly dressed in Britain’s undergarments and pajamas, looking like someone who had gotten out of bed despite the fact that it was already noon. Their dark brown hair was messy and wavy, completely covering their one injured eye, their remaining grey eye staring at their reflection dully. There were still circles underneath their eyes (though much less noticeable now), and their face still looked sullen and pale.

Hm, maybe they should’ve eaten more of what was on their plate.

To be honest, they felt light.

But that was probably because the body has been dead for a few days and was already in the early stages of decomposing.

In Britain’s standards, they look ridiculous and informal.

But in Alex’s standards, they feel comfortable and at ease, not like those suits that strangle and hug their bodies tightly.

They sigh,  _ I guess I’ll have to dress up for tomorrow night _ .

They already feel like they are being strangled just by putting on a much thicker under garment already. They sigh, putting on the suit, staring at the mirror; they look so…  _ unamused _ .

Well, this situation isn’t even amusing for starters.

The concept of family is strange for someone like Alex; not because they were not born with a family, but because Britain had a rather…  _ abstract _ view of what a family is supposed to be. Although their views on it are not particularly fully fleshed out, Britain has — unsurprisingly — been one to assert authority over his children — and colonies — from what his memories can offer.

Britain is a conservative man who thinks that the father is superior to any other family member.

They feel… unpleasant whenever they explore Britain’s memories with his family, specifically his children— they were all too disturbing and painful to watch.

(England’s opinion of his only daughter is…  _ questionable _ , even downright concerning.)

Okay, they already made up their mind about Britain’s ideology on family.

It is absolute shit.

They swing over a coat onto their shoulders to keep them warm, and a fedora as well to make them look much more dignified and more formal, just the way Britain would want.

They look at their reflection; they were fully dressed head-to-toe, to the point that they cannot even see their face anymore.

Definitely going overboard.

Just the way Britain would want.

Although they feel like there is something missing.

They try ignoring it at first; it  _ must _ be small, but then the incessant tugging and pulling in his psyche is enough to make them  _ insane _ .

They sigh;  _ What did they forget this time _ ?  _ Their dignity _ ?

Their right wrist felt light.

They blink;  _ now _ they remember.

They open one of the drawers, fishing out the golden wristwatch that Britain would always wear in important meetings— they were not interested in the watch, but perhaps Britain’s children seeing them with this would mean that they had dressed to impress.

(And not because they slapped this suit on when they realized that it was already an hour before the date.)

Then out of the corner of their eye, something inside the drawers glint, catching their curiosity.

Furrowing their brows, they open the drawer wider, trying to find whatever had managed to catch their eye.

Then they finally found it.

It was both good news and bad news.

Alex’s jaw drops, both in awe and in complete shock.

A small, dark box.

They touch it; it has a smooth texture.

And they open it.

It confirms all of their fears and dreams.

There were two rings inside.

_ Wedding rings _ .

Their remaining grey eye glints, trying to remember when Britain had bought it.

Then they find the memory.

_ Britain stares at the pair of rings in a jewelry store, waiting for France’s hair appointment to finish in a parlor somewhere so that they can get going. _

_ It is too soon for marriage, Scotland advises England, hypnotized by the rings resting on their natural habitat. _

_ What are you talking about? France would love this gift. _

_ That is not a  _ gift _ , those are  _ wedding rings _. Wales tries to slap England with some common sense. _

_ France keeps talking about marriage _ —  _ if I propose to her, she will be happy. _

_ What about  _ **us** _? _

_ England stares at his brothers with an empty look, What about you? _

_ Scotland scowls. What about yourself? _

_ I will be happy with France by my side, obviously. _

_ Those words were…  _ empty, _ devoid of any real meaning other than the fact that he loves the feeling of France liking him _ .

_ You are sacrificing your independence for someone else’s happiness?  _ **Our** _ independence for someone else’s happiness? _

_ It’s for France to keep loving us. _

_ But we don’t love her, and neither do you, Scotland answers, already annoyed by how persistent England was being. _

_ Oh please, you do not know my feelings; I’ll always try again with her, until I finally realise I am in love with her. _

_ That is unhealthy. _

_ It is the price of love. _

_ That’s not love, that’s just leading her on _ —  _ you’re not even making efforts to let the relationship flourish and last. _

_ I make her happy. _

_ You are letting her become emotionally invested in you. _

_ England laughs, You worry too much, brother; I remembered when you and France had a relationship way back when, and now you only feel as if she is better as a friend. I would not stoop as low as you. I want to get back with the most wondrous woman I’ve ever met. _

_ This relationship failed _ twice _. _

_ And it still flourishes in the third try. _

_ Britain buys the rings, keeping it from France for as long as he can, trying to find the right time _ .

Britain bought those rings in 1920.

Only two months after he and France started dating again.

Alex stares at it, scrutinizing its genuinity; no doubt about it, England was not thinking straight when it came to buying this.

It was expensive— jewels encrusted in the gold, shining underneath the light. It was nimble and smooth on their fingers, but they could see how much hard work has been put into crafting something as special as this.

Scotland was right; this was not a gift.

This was a  _ promise _ .

A promise that England had broken every single time whenever she had not been cooperating with him.

They aren’t meant to be.

Alex glances at their wristwatch, and almost screams out loud— they have fifteen minutes left to get to Leicester Square. Swearing, they gather their wallet (Britain’s), coat (also Britain’s), cane (also  _ also _ Britain’s), hiding the box back in the drawers, before exiting their (Britain’s) apartment and locking it, already rushing to the venue where they were about to meet Britain’s children.

  
  


The United States found them first.

“Dad?” A feminine voice asks from behind them; they had been distracted studying everyone’s faces to determine who were Britain’s children among them, that they have — once again — disconnected from their surroundings.

They jump at the sound, and turn around to find the United States of America.

According to Britain’s memories, his eldest — and only — daughter has dark blonde wavy hair, dark green eyes, tan skin, and a heavy onset of freckles in every part of her body.

She looked just like the images in Britain’s memories— although she had  _ lighter _ blonde hair this time. She was also wearing a light blue knee-line dress with puffy sleeves, and a few jewelry around her neck and wrists to show her wealth off.

“Did you dye your hair?” They jump to the most obvious observation they had. “You had dark blonde hair, according to Britain’s memories.”

She tilts her head to the side, short curls bouncing. “Don’t you mean ‘since the last time I saw you’?”

Alex faces her completely; she only reaches up to their nose. “I’m not Britain, if you do not get the winds around here.”

America was about to respond, until someone interrupts her;

“America!” A man with dark brown hair and dark green eyes calls out towards her, running with a man with ginger hair and another who was dark-skinned; all of them looked exhausted. The man who had interrupted his sister started to pant, “Why did you leave us in the store?”

“You fellows looked like you were havin’ a good time”, she replies off-handedly, “Didn't want to interrupt.”

“Ah, you must be Canada, New Zealand, and Australia.” Was that the right time to interrupt a conversation? No. Were they tired of getting interrupted? Absolutely.

All of their eyes turn to look towards Alex; once again, they are shaken by the sudden eye contact that they almost stagger back.

Canada stares at them with an unreadable expression. “Father, it has been a while since we saw each other.”

They tilt their head; not  _ this _ again. “I’m not Britain.”

Australia stares at them, “But… you look a  _ lot _ like him—”

“Okay, he said it”, America interrupts the conversation, “we can drop the formalities now.”

Australia still looks like he didn’t understand. “I’m still confused.”

“He’s not our dad”, she replies to her younger brothers, “he’s someone else.”

New Zealand turns to stare at his sister. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t hear what this man said over the radio?”

Australia sighs, “We were busy with our lives, mate— I wouldn’t even know if I had listened to him speaking over the radio.”

Alex sighs, taking a step backward. “Shall we go somewhere  _ less crowded _ to explain what exactly happened to your father and what I have learned?”

The four siblings stare at them once again— is that a  _ sibling _ thing?

America glances at her brothers, before giving them a non-committable shrug. “Alright, we wanted answers too anyway.”

If they want answers, they are going to get it; there is a lot on their mind anyway.

  
  


The five of them find a suitable restaurant to have dinner in.

It was  _ supposed _ to be comfortable for Alex, but due to the air that the others had created by themselves, it was not.

They found themself picking at their food after they were done with the complete rundown of events from the Battle of Dunkirk and their journey towards the British Isles.

America stares at her plate, dumbstruck. “That is… a lot of complicated information to digest.”

They take a bite, already hungry. “I already know what will happen next after I am done sharing information so… do you have any other questions?”

“Do you know  _ how _ the Third Reich managed to mend such a fatal wound?” America asks.

“I… don’t know  _ how _ he did that; he must’ve manifested in his truly immortal self, or he is now the most immortal being amongst immortals by using magic.”

Canada speaks up, “Magic is locked from us— besides I don’t think that  _ that _ much magic is enough to cause an immortal being to become  _ permanently _ immortal.”

“Um, Alex — I can call you that right? — you mentioned that Dad, Scotland, and Wales were aware of the benefits and consequences of a fusion”, Australia states, “does that mean they read something about fusions and the like?”

“Let me see if they did.” Their remaining eye glows as they access Britain’s memories for the umpteenth time; the others around the table are caught off guard, as if they were seeing a barbaric ritual face-to-face.

After a few seconds of digging through England, Scotland, and Wales’ memories, their eyes became dull and grey again.

They look up at Britain’s children, who were all watching Alex intently.

“Yes— when Scotland suggested uniting their kingdoms once and for all, they came by an old library that had been there ever since the Romans came. They studied every book and every passage that can be used as evidence of their unity. They finally found what they were looking for; an ancient book with undecipherable runes, full of the many properties of what makes up an immortal, almost equating us to ‘gods’. When they found the fusion’s chapter, it was inscribed by instructions on how to create a proper vessel for a number of souls to fit in, properties of a fusion, and of course, the weaknesses of a fusion. They were already aware of the consequences of being a fusion before they were taken by the Third Reich.”

They stare at Alex blankly; they already hate the looks they give them.

New Zealand holds a hand up, “Hold on, so you’re a different soul from the three main ones in the body— but how did you manage to access Britain’s memories?”

“England and the others decided to offer their memories to me”, Alex replies, “they are not my own, so it feels less like I have to reminisce every memory I have in the back of my mind, and more like I am looking for a proper library book to skim over.”

America drinks her fresh batch of wine. “Is France safe?”

Now that was… a completely unrelated question from their body and the way they behaved.

They blink, before kicking themself; France and the United States were close, so  _ of course _ she was going to ask whether France is safe or not.

“She is currently holding together a resistance as we speak.” They say matter-of-factly.

She narrows her eyes, “What about Vichy?”

They were completely caught unprepared with the situation. “I— I do not have a clue whether or not Vichy is safe.”

Canada puts a hand over his sister’s shoulder to calm her down before she tries to cause a scene. “I wish to ask you, Alex, about this…  _ library _ that England, Scotland, and Wales found. Where did they find it?”

Alex sighs, pinching the bridge of their nose. “You’re giving me a headache, making me jump from memory-to-memory.”

Now Canada is interested in  _ something _ else. “Does it drain your energy?”

“Yes, it actually does”, they reply, “the deeper and older the memories are, the harder it is for me to think straight. I feel like being flooded with a thousand images to the point nothing even makes sense anymore.”

“Do you know  _ where _ the library is, though?”

“It is underneath the Big Ben, if I remember correctly”, they say, wringing their hands, “the Roman Empire built it in there, to hide the curious information he had found in his conquests.”

Canada nods, “I see.”

“But there are other libraries around the world hidden in plain sight”, Alex continues, “the library underneath the Big Ben is just one of many.”

“We’ll check into that when we have the time”, America replies, “right now, we need to figure out how the Third Reich managed to survive such a fatal shot.”

“Aren’t you four neutral to this war?” they ask, still picking at their food.

“We are, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t wary of the Axis”, America replies, taking a bite out of her steak.

Canada gives her a pointed look. “Didn’t you say that—”

She keeps talking, “So, er, Alex… any plans to continue this wild goose chase?”

“I plan on giving Free France the green light to get outta Europe as fast as she can, so we can skim battle plans and tactics together.”

“I’d still be willing to trade supplies with you”, she replies.

“That would be perfect.”

Australia looks up from his dinner. “Hey, Alex?”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how you do it, but… I think that you are a swell guy.”

Alex smiles, taken aback by the compliment. “Thank you for your kind words, Australia.”

Australia and New Zealand glance at each other.

“I’ve never heard our father say that before”, Australia says.

“Well, that’s not our father”, the youngest one replies, rolling his eyes. “That’s… a new person.”

The family of four — and a half — calmly eat their dinner all the way, making small-talk with one another.

They feel at ease with the air they created today.

But the food still feels tasteless in their mouth.

What a peculiar day it has been.

* * *

The air around the recently-bombed city was tense and full of fear.

Who could blame them?

It even caught Alex off guard, who had just been drinking tea, looking out from the windows of their apartment, when it happened.

1, 600 civilian casualties; 400  _ dead _ .

The Luftwaffe had made a rather unpleasant surprise.

It was serene at the moment; then the Luftwaffe decided to raid the area.

The day immediately became worse with the presence of Nazi aircraft.

They immediately call London, telling him to call a meeting in.

“The Port of London has been bombed this afternoon”, London says, walking rapidly with Alex as they reach the meeting room. “We must evacuate immediately.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking”, they reply, fiddling with their hands; the attack had been gnawing at them lately, wanting them to snap and leave the entire Isles to fend for themself. “This might become a repeated attack if we let this pass.”

“The Royal Air Forces have been caught unprepared for the raid, but do not worry, their addlement is temporary”, he reassures Alex, opening the doors in the meeting room.

Once again, all is chaos.

They growl in frustration again, entering the room with a false pretense of confidence around them so that they could block out the feeling of being overwhelmed by the noise around here.

“Settle down”, they say as loudly as they can— which is not that loud but it is still enough to get everyone’s attention.

Luxembourg stands, breathless and shaken, “The Port of London has been bombed.”

“I’ve heard that three times since I got here”, Alex replied bluntly, “why do you think  _ I’m _ here?”

“So what’s the plan?” Liverpool asks, “I am sure that the Third Reich has more tactics up his sleeve.”

“Of course he does”, they say, “he is the  _ Third Reich _ , and he always has a plan.”

The Netherlands stares at them. “Are you defending him?”

“ _ No _ ”, they reply, “I’m saying how that will be both to our advantage and disadvantage.”

“So what are we gonna do about the Luftwaffe?” Belgium asks, “I’m sure that it will come back to cause more fear and terror to the populace.”

“The RAF are preparing for another attack”, London replies. “We are  _ not _ going to be caught underprepared against the Germans once again.”

“We have to evacuate the citizens; we do not want to cause more harm towards them.”

“Who  _ knows _ when the Luftwaffe will strike next? We  _ have _ to be prepared!”

“Stop repeating what I just said, London; they already get what I mean.” They turn towards the others. “We may as well have to evacuate before the Third Reich laid waste in our city. London, if you’d do the honors?”

London stands, nodding. “Of course, if you’ll excuse me.”

“We need to at least be prepared and aware”, Aex replies, “we need to show the Third Reich that we can fight back.” They stand, already getting out of their chair.

Belgium leans forward. “Where are you going?”

They look at their friend. “To the hidden library underneath Big Ben.”

London stops babbling incoherently just to stare at Alex. “You’re going to the  _ what _ ?”

“To the library underneath Big Ben”, they repeat themself, “I heard that there is some information about Immortals in there.”

“There  _ is _ some information about Immortals, yes”, London replies, “but the question is: how are you going to read the books? They are all decoded in indecipherable runes that only major Immortals are able to decipher, but it took Britain  _ centuries _ to translate them all into English.”

“Many say that those books came from the outer world, to a time when the Seven Continents were one”, Liverpool speculates.

“Well, that’s the reason why Britain’s memories are so useful; I can translate them to a language I understand with ease.”

London was about to say something different, but instead he says, “... You have a point.”

“Wait”, Belgium manages to catch up to them, “I want to come too— I want answers.”

“But you won’t be able to understand what we truly are.”

He rolls his eyes, “Well, I don’t care, because I really don’t understand what’s going on with me and the others; needless to say, I am used to it.”

Alex nods, “Fair point.” They once again face London. “You and the others already know what to do.”

When Alex and Belgium left to find the library beneath Big Ben, the meeting room was silent.

Liverpool clears his throat. “The vessel does not seem to care whether or not we are being bombed by the Reich.”

The Netherlands scoffs, flicking his hand towards the cities. “You don’t know our Alex the way we do.”

“He is not good at expressing his feelings properly”, Hungary says, eating a sandwich nonchalantly. “Thus he shows it through action— he knows when to act and when to — appropriately — feel a situation.”

“You can show he cares just by how urgent he usually is”, Denmark replies, “he may be calm, fast, and swift, but he has only been alive for only a week, so he is still learning.”

The Netherlands lifts a finger towards the cities. “Don’t underestimate him yet.”

-

Alex was distressed.

They  _ should _ be distressed.

The Luftwaffe had  _ raided _ them.

They were going down the stairs two steps at a time, flashlight in hand, but the world still felt dark and cold. It was like someone had made them switch off their awareness mode, preferring the dark contrast to make them feel even  _ worse _ . Their legs shake, almost slipping as they reach a particularly nasty turn, but they stabilize themself just in time, their heartbeat getting faster as they take a few deep breaths.

“You alright?” Belgium asks from behind him.

Alex lets out a breath of relief, before nodding. “Fine now.”

“Shall we keep going?”

“We are almost there.”

They pick up their pace; they’re anxious and stressed.

Well, they’re not wholly anxious and stressed.

They are also exhausted, concerned, worried, addled, frustrated, and every other negative word that exists in their vast vocabulary.

(A  _ lot _ .)

Once they finally reach the base of the stairs, they are greeted by a large, wooden, and  _ very old _ door.

“This door was created during the Roman Era”, they muse, making contact with the door.

“But those do not look like it is scribbled down in Latin”, Belgium points out, “the door is carved with strange runes; you can see it, right?”

They shine the light towards the runes carved towards the door. Belgium was right: it does not look like any language they have seen before.

Their remaining grey eye glows, trying to recall what those runes mean in a more understandable language.

And when they find what they are looking for, they incline their head upwards, reading the entire thing, “The Library of Immortal Information.”

Belgium looks at them, “You can read and understand that just by looking at Britain’s memories?”

“No”, they reply, pushing the door open, dust making them cough, “Britain  _ understood _ and learnt it— I had only followed, but I cannot comprehend what it means.”

“Do you… want to go inside?”

They nod, “Let’s.”

The two of them were bathed by dust and debris, both of them coughing and swatting away dust. Once Alex and Belgium were past all those dust and cobwebs, they were met with a hundred, or perhaps a thousand bookshelves; it doesn’t even seem to end. They sigh— all of the books were full of cobwebs and dust, and it was irritating them.

“It seems that no one has been here for a long time”, Belgium says, using his flashlight to look around. “When was the last time the British brothers had been here?”

“During 1707”, they reply quickly, skimming the spines of the books, “... I am sure that they left a few notes on how to decode these runes properly.”

“Your memories from Britain running out?” Belgium asks.

“It’s more like they cannot remember or recognize any of these”, they reply, touching the spines of the books gingerly. “They are old, and they are fragile— but I am sure Britain has left a few translations wedged in some of these books here and there.”

Belgium takes out a book from one of the shelves, flipping through pages gently, before something wedged between the pages falls out. He picks it up, before lifting it. “One of these books got a bookmark!”

His exclamation echoes— it must have been a mistake, since the sentence rings out in the quiet library for about a few seconds.

Alex’s ears ring at the sound, turning towards Belgium with a slight judging expression.

He awkwardly laughs, “I suppose I should’ve said it softly.”

They gently take the sheet of parchment from Belgium, reading it. “It’s about fusions.”

Belgium perks up, forwarding the book he was holding towards Alex. “Could this be the book we’ve been looking for?”

They take the book; it feels old and worn, its covers indecipherable. “Perhaps.” The texture of the paper seems dried, already crumbing to dust underneath their fingers— not on their watch. “It is strange, don’t you think?”

“Hm? What is strange?”

“According to Britain’s memories, the Roman Empire did not have their words written onto books and pages— they wrote and documented their daily lives or literature in papyruses or wood.”

“Now that you commented on it… that  _ is _ strange.”

Alex flips over to the next page. “I presume that this must mean that whatever these books are… they are not from around here.”

Belgium laughs, “Ah yes, I have heard of the theory that we are all aliens living in a world full of humans.”

Their remaining eye lands on an image of seven pairs of eyes staring intently at another smaller entity. “Maybe that is plausible.”

He scoffs, “Don’t tell me you believe in the kind of nonsense my father believes, hm? Those are old Immortal tales, stories that were created way back when Ancient Civilizations dominated the world.”

“Do you think it’s possible that the lineage of us Immortals predates even the humans?”

Belgium leans on one of the bookshelves, exhausted. “I mean, unless there  _ is _ proof, I won’t be able to believe in those hollow theories.”

They smirk, turning the page, before gasping. “I  _ finally _ found it.” They glare at Belgium. “You shouldn’t’ve removed that parchment from the page where you got it.”

He rolls his eyes, “It  _ fell _ .”

They chuckle, “I know.”

“You are so cruel.”

“Not as cruel as Britain.”

“Yes, less cruel than  _ that _ pile’o mess.”

“You seem to have a distaste towards Britain.” They observe, putting the translated parchment beside the runes, trying to figure the entire thing out.

“He’s a swell guy— he had been my mentor after all”, he flips his hair, swearing at the dust resting on it, “but I kinda don’t like him ‘cause of what he’s doing to my mother.”

At the mention of France, their mind is immediately back to the pair of rings again.

Damn it; they were distracted.

They purse their lips, trying to fixate back onto the book, already at the chapter of fusions.

“The images in this book are strange”, they state, staring at a figure of a tattooed man with souls circling around his body, “they do not look….  _ Roman _ .”

Belgium peers at the man. “They look like they are getting exorcised.”

They actually  _ snort _ at the joke. “Where did you get those kinds of jokes from?”

He smiles sheepishly. “From my father?”

Alex rolls their eyes. “It is quite  _ obvious _ that that atrocious sense of humor was from the Netherlands.”

“I  _ am _ his son, after all.” They lean in closer, but not enough to make them uncomfortable. “Did you find anything?”

“I am still trying to find the right letters for the runic alphabet.” They narrow their only eye, “It is peculiar that the runes can correspond with the Latin alphabet, only that it is in a different writing style.”

“... Now that you mention it, I really am starting to think that our ancestors were aliens. Find any other kinda answers?”

“According to the book, fusions are created by the blending of one’s own blood together”, they say, getting the hang of translating the runes. “Into a runic circle with the— the Seven Continents’ symbols on them.”

“Do you know if Britain remembers those symbols and other things happening?”

“Yes, I recognized those symbols: they were etched onto a runic circle when Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales got ready to fuse. They are — as what the book says — the Seven Continents’ symbols.”

“What’s next?”

“The people who wish to fuse must spill blood to the center runic circle— Europe’s symbol.”

“Any particular reason  _ why _ ?”

“It says here that it is about which continent the inhabitants came from.”

“I see; anything else?”

“Well, they just have to wait until their blood starts glowing, and after that, their souls will start to astral project, to create the perfect body for them to stay.”

He laughs, “So your body is an entire dollhouse— cute.”

Their eye twitches at that implication. “It seems so.”

That statement does not sit right with them.

“Anything else?”

“Does the fact that the vessel has to be stable before the souls enter count?”

“It does.”

They stand, tucking the book underneath their arm. “I suppose that is enough for today; I do not want to be stuck in a rather…  _ dark _ setting.”

Belgium shivers, “Me neither— we can talk about the properties of an Immortal after we get our fresh air.”

They leave the dark and dank library behind, carrying one of its ancient relics.

* * *

**ENIGMA CODE CRACKED**

Belgium and Alex were walking along the streets of London when they saw the headlines of the most recent news for the first time.

“Well, I guess the Luftwaffe is old news now”, he replies, with a laugh. “Good job on the guy who cracked the code though— saved us a lot of headaches.”

They smile, “This is a victory for us— the Nazis will not be able to bother us here in Britain anymore.”

“I suppose now our only problem would be to defeat the Nazis in Mainland Europe.”

They grimace at the reminder, “Don’t remind me about our other problem.”

His golden eyes meet their grey ones. “Well, it’s something I’ve been thinking about since I surrendered toward the Third Reich.” His face morphs into sadness. “I want my home back.”

Alex stares at him; he looks… homesick,  _ forlorn _ . The way his eyes were shining, looking up at the sun that was presumably laughing at him, and the way his lips were curved into the upside-down shape of a smile makes them pity him.

Honestly, the sadness and tension in the air was making them awkward  _ and _ sad.

They do not know how to comfort someone.

But people usually comfort them whenever they have issues (even when they try hiding what bothers them from the others).

It makes them feel guilty, that they do not have the knowledge to offer consolation to their loved ones.

If they are able to offer them solace, they should do the same thing to them as well.

Alex sighs inwardly;  _ I’m no good at this _ .

“Hey, Louis, want to get a cup of joe with me?” they ask, wanting to lighten the mood with their friend.

Belgium stops staring into the nothingness, before giving Alex a small smile. “I’d love to— you are a good friend.”

They chuckle, surprised. “I wouldn’t call myself a ‘good friend’; you just looked and  _ felt _ sad.”

“Am I that obvious to read?”

“No, the aura is just  _ there _ .”

They both continue walking. “You seem to be getting adjusted to living like Britain.”

They look down at the sidewalk; they try to keep a straight face, but they cannot help the corners of their lips inclining upwards. “Well, I  _ am _ in this body, right?”

Belgium laughs. “I got used to it— what about you?”

Alex stares at him in confusion. “I did get used to being in this body, but what did you mean by that?”

“... Are you satisfied with it, though?”

They almost stumble just from how unprepared they were with the question, but they manage to catch themself on time. They put a hand towards one of the walls, following Belgium. “What are you trying to say?”

He doesn’t spare Alex a glance. “Are you satisfied with your body now?”

_ No _ , they want to say,  _ no, they are not satisfied with the body, and they still _ loathe _ living in it _ . But they do not say that— well, how  _ could _ they say that? They still have a slight dislike towards the way their body was constructed, but they can  _ tolerate _ it; this was  _ not _ their body, after all. How could they just say they are still not satisfied with it?

“I am satisfied with my body.” The lie burns their throat, a pill that was hard to swallow.

Belgium gives Alex a content smile, “I know you’re not.”

Alex sighs, “You always know when I lie.”

“No I do not— I only knew that you lied because you hesitated for a few seconds before answering my question.”

“Was I that subtle?” They never liked how they were so easy to read.

Unlike Britain, who was considered hard and inexplicable to read by the others.

There they go again, being jealous of the person they are supposed to save.

“Do you want the bluntest answer I could give you?”

“No.”

He chuckles, “You’re just so honest with your feelings.”

Alex raises a brow, knowing full well that it was true. “Am I?”

“Oh please, you know that I’m right.”

“I didn’t want you to brag about it.”

“Too late, I’m about to brag.”

“I’ll make sure to bring my earmuffs next time.”

“Are we still going to get a cup of joe?”

“ _ You _ pay.”

“Unfair!”

Alex laughs, although a little bitterly. “Life is unfair, Belgium.”

* * *

The newspapers’ headlines start to change, from the air raids of the German aircraft in Britain, to the Jewish genocide happening in Europe, to the United States publishing the Lend-Lease Policy, to the Nazis attacking the Soviet Union, to the Japanese Empire attacking Pearl Harbor, forcing the United States to declare war on them.

They read it all, waiting for the current news of the morning once he had woken up and brewed their cup of tea as their only source of breakfast, before dressing up and attending a meeting where they plan battle tactics and operations to counter the Nazis’.

At first, it had just been the British Cities, Luxembourg, Belgium, the Netherlands, Hungary, and Denmark planning alongside them, wanting to get their lands back and defeat the Axis.

But after they managed to get into contact with Free France, and after the United States officially joined the war, the people forming and creating battle plans and tactics doubled, to the point that the meeting room was suffocating them.

Before Alex knew it, the months, the seasons, and the years had gone by— but they only felt like this war had started yesterday.

Is this how an Immortal thinks time works? Where a decade will always be a few days ago, and a century is always a month ago?

Time seems to pass by so fast, they almost start to forget what their objective had been.

But… it is hard to forget the reason why you are alive in the first place.

They looked at the calendar on their wall as they were stirring their cup of coffee to stimulate their nerves— 1944.

It has been five years since they were brought into this world.

It was strange to think that they were five years old now.

(That sounds rather funny in other people’s mouths, to be honest.)

They take a sip of their coffee, and blanches; too bitter. They add a teaspoon of sugar, mixing it in as it becomes a richer shade of brown.

And five years too long to keep England, Scotland, and Wales waiting.

Are they even  _ alive _ ?

Their hands tremble.

The last time they’ve been contacted by them had been in 1941, after the enigma code had been cracked.

The three of them — even England — sounded distressed and distorted, trying to reach out to Alex as an image of an aurorae fused together.

Their faces and screams had haunted them for the rest of that year, that not even their friends were able to cheer them up.

They frown— are they  _ dead _ ?

They shake that thought from their head;  _ don’t be ridiculous _ .

They are strong, and they are not weak— they cannot die  _ that _ easily.

They place their cup of coffee on the table once they realise that they cannot stop their shaking.

(Much better than having to pick up glass shards like last time.)

Alex tries reminding themself that they are not  _ dead _ ; if they are, who is going to be the Immortal representations of the literal England, Scotland, and Wales?

Even Northern Ireland is getting skirmish.

(Ireland, meanwhile, proceeds to be cold.)

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in”, they reply, too anxious to stand from their seat.

The door opens, and a familiar voice rings out. “It’s just me.”

Free France waltzes in their apartment, giving them a blank look.

After Free France managed to escape Mainland Europe, they were the first person to greet her civilly— much to their surprise, she greeted them with an embrace. It was not a welcome gesture (they still dislike being touched without permission), but when she started to sob, they had no choice but to reciprocate her embrace.

“Good morning, France”, they say, taking a sip of their coffee, admiring its bitter-sweet taste. “What brings you here?”

She looks around, mesmerized at how the entire apartment changed in over five years (it must have looked different because they had garnered a particular interest for floral designs to the point it might even be considered an obsession). “I came here to get some of my clothes back.”

Their brain is being kicked by a dozen memories of Britain undressing his beau, and they nod. “Understandable, but why now?”

She fixes her dress, “I was just…  _ reminded _ of the things that I have left here.” There was a certain shaking in her voice, which was almost too quiet.

They stand, their legs now stable enough to carry their weight. “Do you want me to accompany you there?”

“No”, she replies, not even looking at them, “I’ll just take my clothes and— and I will see you at the meeting.”

Without another word, she trudges into their bedroom.

They don’t particularly  _ like _ it when strangers invite themselves into their home, but perhaps they can make an exception towards France.

She had the slightest hint of loneliness on her face when she walked into their apartment.

Alex has a few minutes of silence to themself, absorbing the words of the book that they were currently reading (it was about how to make floral patterns and integrate them into clothing), engrossed in the world of knitting and clothing, wishing that they were just a humble tailor stuck in their own world and not an immortal in the real world.

Reality is often disappointing; sometimes it is even overwhelming.

Then when they were at the most interesting part of the book (the trivia), a sob escaping from Alex’s room interrupts their leisure, prompting them to look up from the book.

“France?” They close the book (a part of their brain whines at the interruption), walking to the bedroom, “Is that you who’s crying? Are you alright?” They knock on the door, repeating the questions they have asked towards her a few more times, before opening the door.

“France, please tell me what’s—”

When they walked in, the entire content of their wardrobe was on the floor, along with France’s — initially folded and organized — clothes, wrinkled and crumpled. France was at the center of it, clutching one of Britain’s dress shirts, tears running down her face, ruining her mascara.

They were… more concerned about the mess she made though, but that is not the point.

They run to her, kneeling beside her, “France! Why did you have to make a mess in my bedroom?”

She sniffles, wiping her face with her hands, “I— I’m sorry, I was just—” She cuts herself off with a whimper, burying her face to the dress shirt she was holding.

Great, now they’d have to wash that again for the second time this week.

“France, you’re not making any sense; just talk to me.”

“I— I  _ miss _ Britain”, she says between sobs, “I miss him  _ so much _ , it’s tearing me apart.”

“We’ll get him back”, Alex reassures her, “once we defeat the Nazis, we can—”

“I don’t  _ want _ to wait!” She snaps, gripping the dress shirt with the same intensity as a predator’s claws digging into their prey, “I want him  _ now _ ! I-I want him back, I want him to hold me in his arms again, I  _ want _ him back in my life!”

“We  _ will _ get him back—”

“It’s too much!” She says, standing. “I can’t  _ handle _ another year without him!”

“You’ve already been so stable  _ without _ Britain”, they reassure her, “you can handle—”

“I had sex with Poland for this past few years after Britain was abducted”, she says, chuckling bitterly, shivering, “I imagined that  _ he _ was Britain, kissing me, loving me, sleeping with me, taking care of me… but it didn’t feel right.”

Alex blinks, processing what she just said. “You slept with Poland?”

“I— I did.” She wipes tears from her face. “I miss the way Britain touched me that I had to— to find it in others, to find someone who would touch me the right way; the way Britain had touched and loved me. He was the only person who somewhat understood my pain, and offered himself to help me with my loneliness.” She hugs herself. “But no one matched the warmth that Britain emitted, not even in the most intimate ways.”

“Wait, no one felt right compared to Britain?”

She shakes her head, staring into nothingness. “None felt right compared to Britain, yes; it was like my entire world revolved only around him, and that everyone else were paper dolls being strung up and just small flavors in my life. And I was the sun, making him happy and content, for the rest of my life, because if he is not happy...” She digs her nails into her arm, “Then I will not be.”

Alex is unable to respond towards her musings. “I think that you are focusing on Britain over yourself.”

“He makes me feel  _ alright _ ”, she snaps, clutching the dress shirt like it was her child. “He makes me feel like everything is okay when it is not, makes me happy for the meantime when I don’t even  _ want _ to be happy. He is… he is the only thing that can make me feel like the world was all sunshine and flowers, away from the darkness and the destruction that awaited us.” She looks at the dress shirt. “And I feel like my world is falling apart, the more years I spend without him.”

“But the world shouldn't be revolving around Britain— it should be revolving around you.”

“I am not able to make myself feel alright, but  _ he _ can”, she replies absent-mindedly, putting her head on her knees, still shaking. “He had a way with words that I can never match with; even his charisma is much higher than mine.”

“That doesn’t sound healthy.”

“But it is the only way to keep me happy.”

“Are you happy now?”

“I am not, but if Britain is here, I  _ will _ be.”

“You need to learn how to be happy by yourself— your relationship with Britain will not last forever.”

She looks up to glare at them, “What do  _ you _ know? You’re currently in Britain’s body right now!”

“I know, but you have to prepare yourself for the inevitable.”

“We are  _ not _ going to end”, she says, “we are  _ forever _ .”

“A sentiment which will change once you are already in that chapter of your life.”

“You’re insufferable”, she says, gritting her teeth. “You are too blunt for my liking.”

“I’m sorry, but you needed to hear that.”

“You are  _ not _ Britain”, she starts to tear up again, “but you have his voice and his face; you’re tormenting me.”

“It isn’t my fault.” They don’t know how to respond to that.

“Please, I just— I just want you to act like Britain, even just for a second.” She starts to unbutton the blouse on her dress.

They don’t like where this is going.

“W-What are you doing?” They demand, holding France’s hand to stop her from unbuttoning.

“Please, I can’t take this anymore”, she stares up at them, her dark blue eyes full of loneliness and passion. “You  _ look _ like Britain, so you must  _ feel _ like him, don’t you not?”

They were speechless, their heart beating once again, “I—”

“I  _ want _ to feel loved again”, she says with a pleading tone, “to be loved by the only person I  _ truly _ love.”

“But I am not—”

“I want to— to be taken care of, like what Britain did back then.”

They felt a pair of arms wrap around them, and they looked down to find France embracing them, feeling serene.

Alex, however, is  _ not _ serene. “I am not—”

“I miss this”, she says, sighing, “wrapping my arms around you,  _ Bretagne _ .”

_ Bretagne _ .

_ Bretagne _ .

_ Britain _ .

That name was the bane of their existence— something about the name ticks them off, but they did not know why it makes them so angry, so insecure.

But once they are embraced by an emotionally unstable France, dependent on only Britain to make her happy, they finally realise why.

They are angry, but not at France— they are angry with Britain.

How could Britain just…  _ leave _ them alone in the world, unprepared?

Why did he expect them to pick up the pieces of who he once was and wear it across themself?

Even five years after they were born, this sentiment never changed.

Even five years after they’ve become used to living in a lie, the thoughts about how they were born were still at the back of their mind, forever striking them when their mind blanks out.

They were still living a  _ lie _ .

They robbed Britain five years of his life.

Was it their fault that Britain was still trapped in that dagger?

Was it their fault that he was kidnapped by the Third Reich in the first place?

Was it their fault that France is emotionally vulnerable since she had been separated from Britain for so long?

Do they…  _ want _ to do this with France?

They put a hand on her back, mimicking the way her hands were coiling on theirs.

There was no spark; not even an attraction towards her.

She  _ is _ beautiful, but the kind of beautiful that they can only admire from afar— not up close.

They already feel uncomfortable, as they suffocate in her grip.

They feel  _ pity _ at how her love for Britain is mostly unrequited, but what she is doing right now is not okay.

They take their hand off her back, before pushing her away slightly, enough for her to lose her grip on their body.

They stare at her, with sadness in their eyes. “I’m sorry, but I am not comfortable with this, nor do I like you.”

Instead of looking angry or surprised that they had denied her offer like she did way back when, she looked…  _ sadder _ , more heartbroken. “I… You don’t love me?”

“It is Britain who loves you”, they reply, questioning their choice of words already, “and you need to keep on being patient for him— if you are alone with no one else to talk to… then you need to remember that there is somebody out there who loves you, who wants you to feel happy even when you are alone.”

France folds up Britain’s dress shirt, trying to quiet her sobs down. “I-I’m sorry for the mess.”

_ You should be _ . “It’s fine, would you mind helping me before you depart?”

“O-Of course… I-I’m sorry for dropping by early and making a mess because I couldn’t—” She wipes the tears escaping her face. “I-I’m so sorry...”

“You can start by helping me fold the clothes you threw out of the wardrobe”, they say; once again, they are at a loss of comforting someone. “Then you can go wash your face in the bathroom.”

She picks one of the wrinkled shirts, folding it gently. “You are… kind.”

To be honest, it was the first time they’ve ever seen France lose it; they didn’t know whether or not they like or dislike it.

They spend the rest of the morning folding up Britain’s clothes and putting it back onto the wardrobe.

  
  


“I’m done.” They perk up from the book they were reading, to see France emerging from the bathroom without her makeup.

Even without it, she still looked beautiful.

She must have noticed that they were staring, since she tilts her head, “... Is there something in my face?”

They shake their head, “Just amazed that your face remains the same even without makeup.”

She raises a brow, “... Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

They stare at her, “You still look  _ dashing _ , France.”

She blinks, before giving them a little smile. “T-Thanks.” She clears her throat. “I best be going now; I do not want to become a hindrance to your morning, Alex.”

“It’s not a problem, Miss France”, they reply, “though I do wish when you come visit me again, you wouldn’t go on a rampage in my bedroom again.”

She lightly chuckles, “I promise I would not do something like that again.” She opens the door, giving them one last smile. “ _ Au revoir _ !”

They nod, “Goodbye for now, too!”

She closes the door, and once again, silence is their only visitor.

They are alone again.

To be honest, it feels quite nice; they’ve been alone for five years now.

And it was  _ liberating _ .

* * *

**ALLIES LIBERATE PARIS**

There was a celebration in Paris today.

The crowd cheering all around them overwhelms Alex, but they keep the smile tight on their face, making them look as if they were satisfied with the celebration going on in France’s capital right now.

The United States elbows Alex, surprising them, “You okay there, bud?”

They groan, rubbing their arm like they were hit with something.“I’m alright, but don’t do that to me ever again.”

“You just look like you were going to puke the contents of your stomach out already.”

“... Please stop speaking, because I  _ might _ do that.” They were covered in sweat from head-to-toe, and they were approaching a migraine; perhaps because they spent the last few weeks actually  _ fighting _ in the frontlines rather than watching in the sidelines like they usually do.

… It was way worse, fighting a battle rather than planning for it.

But at least they liberated Paris— getting their forces squandered was the only consequence of it.

“Why the long face? We  _ won _ and liberated Paris from the Nazis!” Of course, she continued on speaking. “Besides, your lady friend just reunited with your other lady friend.”

“Once again, France and Vichy France are not my lady friends”, they reply, almost retching; they must’ve eaten bad food on the way here. “Though I am happy that those fissions were fused back together again.”

Fissions are possible; they only needed to be carved with the Seven Continents’ symbols for it to work.

“Not even like… happy  _ that _ kind of way?”

“I don’t like her  _ that _ way”, they reply, holding it in. “I must’ve eaten something spoiled— or maybe I’m just overwhelmed by the crowd gathering here?”

England’s daughter scoffs, “I  _ told _ you not to eat that two week-old bread.”

“I was  _ tired _ .” They jump as the crowd’s cheering grows louder. They sigh, leaning onto one of the tanks. “When will this celebration end?”

“When America’s done feeding in her ego”, France speaks up, rolling her eyes.

America looks at her friend, “I am  _ not _ feeding my ego.”

She looks at her with a pointed look. “You were grinning from ear-to-ear once everyone started cheering for the Allies.”

“Besides, the cheering is not reserved for only  _ you _ , America”, Alex replies, trying to sound casual while their skin is burning up and their legs are trembling. “The cheering and praising is for  _ all _ of us.”

America crosses her arms, “Where did you come to that conclusion?”

France sighs, “Because you are — naturally — like that.”

Alex coughs, “I think I need to rest.”

“We’ll rest  _ after _ we eat and plan”, the blonde-haired woman replies, “we’re  _ this close _ to closing in on the Nazis, and we  _ just _ liberated Paris! Bask in it!”

France stares at her, “Why are you more enthusiastic over the Liberation of Paris than me?”

She swings her shoulders around her friend, “‘Cause you just don’t have the enthusiasm to bask in something as big as this! Aren’t you  _ happy _ ?”

France gives her a small smile, “Yes, yes I am. I just do not know how to process all this.”

Alex senses that her dam of tears was about to break. “Do you wanna head back inside, France?”

She shakes her head, shaking. “No, I’m— I’m fine.” She starts to break down.

“I’m  _ free _ .”

She starts to sob, and America catches her before she falls down.

As Alex stares at the two women comforting each other, they felt the strangest sense of feeling satisfied with how today had been.

They no longer felt sick anymore, like all of the sickness had left their body.

They felt warm, even when  _ they _ were not the one being comforted.

_ This is real _ .

* * *

The Allies are pushing the Nazis back into Germany in all fronts.

They are now six years old (that still sounds wrong), fighting with the others to defeat Nazi Germany.

They’re about to become the victors of this war.

“It’s only been six years, but it felt like this war lasted for forever”, the Netherlands says with a sigh, leaning on one of their vehicles. “Thank  _ god _ that my lands are now liberated from Nazi hands.”

Alex laughs, “We’re all exhausted from this war.”

France sighs, “Even if we are the potential victors of this war, we might face the consequences of it.”

“We’ll think about the consequences later; for now, we will have to defeat the Third Reich before focusing on the consequences of the war that has been brought to us.”

“I can’t believe it is ending”, Canada replies, sitting beside the Netherlands. “The tide of battle turns to our favor.”

The blonde-haired man then leans on him, “Thanks for helping the royal family, by the way.”

Canada smiles, “No problem, Netherlands!”

France sneers, “I wish I could see what the Third Reich’s face looks once he realizes that we are closing in on his home.”

America laughs, “He probably has that look that the Deutsches Reich had when he realised he lost the war and has to surrender.”

Alex chuckles, “Britain saw that; it took him all his energy not to make him laugh in front of a serious meeting.”

“Then the Deutsches Reich runs away from Germany like a pansy to hide in  _ my _ territory”, the Netherlands rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “What a  _ pansy _ .”

“Oh please, even if the Deutsches Reich is a pansy, Weimar is a  _ coward _ ”, France says, snickering. “The German Family is a  _ mess _ .”

“Hey mom, remember that time the Deutsches Reich danced with you  _ during the war _ ?” Belgium says with a mischievous smile. “Kept flirting with you and when you told him he’s not interested, he threw a fit and blamed you for leading him on?”

Alex blinks, “Wait, that  _ happened _ ?”

France scoffs, “I do not want to be reminded of that memory— it is too embarrassing.”

“They even danced in the moonlight! It was  _ so _ romantic!”

France glares at her son, “Can you  _ not _ ,  _ Belgique _ ?”

America laughs, “Oh my god, is that really true? I thought that it was just a baseless rumor!”

“It is — unfortunately — true.”

Canada perks up, “You  _ danced _ with the German Empire?”

“It’s not like I gave him a sign that I  _ want _ to dance with him!”

“Why would he dance with somebody he’s fighting  _ against _ ?” The Netherlands says between laughter, “This is so fucking funny, I don’t know why!”

Alex stares at everyone. “Because the German Empire’s thought process is  _ absurd _ ?”

There was a silence that remains once Alex says that, and they fear that they took it too far— that is, until everyone starts to laugh so loudly in the camps once again.

“Alex actually  _ has _ a sense of humor!” The Netherlands hollers, leaning onto a chuckling Canada. “I’m sorry I doubted your funny bone, friend!”

“I’m so proud of you”, Belgium says in a teasing way. “You came a long way.”

Alex sighs fondly, “Everyone’s come a long way.”

“And I want this trip to be over soon”, France replies with a huff. “I miss the times when peace was the only thing knocking on my door.”

“I miss it when only my alarm clock is the reason I woke up in the light of dawn and not some aircraft hanging over me”, the Netherlands replies.

“I miss the way the world used to be”, Belgium says with a sigh, looking at the stars. “Back when everything was okay and we were on top of the food chain.”

“I just want to leave all this war stuff behind”, France says, “No more fighting for me anymore.”

“Speaking of fighting”, the Netherlands turns to look at Alex, which is a bad sign, “what’s gonna happen to you after the war ends?”

They blink, “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to go once you get Britain back?”

Ah.

This was a question that they were  _ supposed _ to be prepared for.

They had been thinking about that too for the past few months, as they started closing in on the Germans.

This thought was honestly damaging their confidence, so they pushed it back into the deepest recesses of their mind so that it would not interfere in the battles that they were involved in— it is too risky to be lost in thought in the trenches, with a possibility of getting injured.

They thought that they were the only one who was thinking about what will happen when they get England, Scotland, and Wales’ souls back.

But frankly, they were wrong.

The others  _ do _ have the same exact thought as them.

They didn’t think they like it; it makes them feel  _ vulnerable _ .

Why were they vulnerable?

Didn’t they feel so comfortable with the others a while ago, though?

Was that question so… so  _ sensitive _ to them?

It is like waiting for their untimely death— but judging from the fact that they are now so close towards the ending point, they really  _ do _ feel like it is their death.

For some reason… they did not want to give their body up.

Their remaining grey eye shines in realisation.

They… want to stay.

Even when they are not satisfied with this body, they still want to stay here, in the living world, for as long as they can.

For the rest of their life.

They want to  _ live _ .

Why did that realisation take six years?

“Hey, Alex, are you still here?” The question surprises them a little, and they look up and find the others staring at them.

“I-I’m fine.” They were not— they just had an epiphany near the campfire, draining everyone’s mood. “I’m okay.”

“Uh, did my question ruin your spirit?” The Netherlands says awkwardly, scratching the scalp of his hair. 

“No”, they say, standing, to the surprise of everyone. “I just need some time to rest.” They disappear into their tent, leaving everyone dumbstruck.

The Netherlands sighs. “He’s a terrible liar, that one.”

* * *

**THE THIRD REICH FOUND DEAD IN HIS OFFICE** —  **SUSPECTED SUICIDE**

**GERMANY SURRENDERS**

Three hours of sorting through files and canvases of art in the Third Reich’s office, and Alex still finds no sign of the dagger that the bastard had bragged about in worldwide news.

They grunt, opening one more box and spilling out its contents—  _ nothing _ .

They growl in frustration; this is the last box that they’ve checked, and they did not want to be in a room that smells like death!

Because the Third Reich’s dead body was literally in the office.

Whenever they look at it, they can feel themself retching— if he was still alive, then they would’ve punched the living lights out of him and demanded where he hid the weapon.

“I’m seriously getting angry”, they state with gritted teeth, double-checking every nook and cranny that may have the weapon hidden in them.

But they found nothing.

What kind of sick joke is this?

“Did you find it?” France asks, poking her head into the office.

They sigh, “ _ No _ , for some reason, I think it does not want to be found.”

“Maybe if your body can sense the souls, it can guide you towards your destination?”

“I… I don’t think it works that way.”

“Well, we  _ have _ to think of something.”

“I’m just going to keep searching until I find it.”

“You’ve been searching for the dagger for three hours now; do you even get creeped out at how  _ dead-looking _ the Third Reich is?”

“Considering the fact he  _ should’ve been _ dead during the Battle of Dunkirk, seeing him dead puts me on edge.”

“The weapon has to be somewhere in here.” He knocks down a couple more boxes, burying his head into them, before shaking his head. “Nothing.”

They give the Third Reich’s corpse one last look; a bullet hole on his head, a blank look, blood all over the desk, his hands limp. “I suppose the only person that is able to kill the Third Reich is himself.”

She stares at them, “What?”

“He made a deal with the continent Europe”, they say, “to be immortal, against other immortals;  _ that _ was how he managed to live after such a fatal shot from Britain. He can only kill  _ himself _ .”

“A deal with the continent Europe?” France repeats, leaning on the doorway. “The Seven Continents are in an  _ indefinite slumber _ .”

“But we can still feel their energies around us”, they reply, “they are like spirits, watching over us. They are only able to react when we carve out a symbol of theirs, and a fragment of themselves will rise from the ground, and grant you your desires.”

She frowns, “That is…  _ strange _ .”

“Without the Seven Continents, we would not have existed.”

She rolls her eyes, “I know, I know; are you done dumping information that you learnt through an ancient book or are you still going to search for the weapon?”

They are quite aware that the reason why France is so eager to retrieve the weapon is because she cannot wait to be in the loving arms of Britain once again.

Honestly, they too are eager to find the dagger as well, since they do not want to be the focus of France’s affection anymore.

And because they have a favor to ask the three brothers as well.

They groan, “Wherever the Third Reich hid the weapon, I cannot seem to find it.”

France walks up towards them. “I think that someone like the Third Reich is hiding it in another secret passageway.”

“That’s what I was thinking as well— does he have any blueprints surrounding passageways here?”

“I have it right here.” A new voice causes Alex to become alert, as they turn towards the doorway for the source of the voice;

“ _ L’Autriche _ ”, France sneers, “what a nice time for you to drop by.”

Alex glares at Austria’s figure, “How did you know we’re in here? Did you escape the Allies?”

“I’ve been here for as long as I can remember”, he replies, stepping forward, his face full of forlorn. “During my time hiding away here, to escape all of your wrath, I realised… that there is nothing left for me out there.” He takes out a dagger with its hilt attached to it.

Alex’s remaining eye widen;

_ There it is _ .

They glare at him, “Give it to me,  _ now _ .”

“But first, I have a favor to ask of you both.”

France steps forward, “You are  _ not _ in the position to ask for favors.”

“Give that to me”, they say, putting their hand forward, “ _ now _ .”

“ _ Please _ ”, he pleads, almost sobbing, “he’d  _ die _ in that asylum, and Soviet has his sister.”

They furrow their brows, “‘He’? What are you talking about?”

“Just give that weapon to him”, France says, patience growing thin. “I have had  _ enough _ of your bullshit.”

Alex puts two and two together, before staring at Austria intently. “Wait, I knew that Weimar had a daughter… but he had a son as well?”

“Yes, please, I just want him to be safe”, he says, “that is what Prussia would have wanted for him.”

“What does Prussia have to do with Weimar’s son? Where  _ is _ Prussia? Soviet did not see him when he was advancing towards Poland.”

Austria gives them another sad stare. “He’s dead; the Third Reich killed him and made it look like suicide.”

Alex nods, “I see.”

“Please, I just want  _ one _ single favor, and it’s to free West from his prison back at the insane asylum”, he says, “he’s  _ dying _ in there.”

“Well, less Germans to worry about”, France says, “we’re not getting him out of there.”

“Give me the dagger and I’ll get him out myself”, Alex says, much to the shock of both immortals. “But you  _ and _ Weimar’s son have to go into trial, along with the other German cities and provinces who thought that  _ this _ was a good idea.”

He nods, “Of course, thank you for your kindness.” He gives Alex the dagger, before digging around his pockets before holding out Britain’s eye towards them (much to their disgust). “You’d need this to seal the deal.”

They nod towards France, “Escort Austria out of the premises— I’ll be right behind you.”

She sighs, “Why did you have to agree with  _ this _ nitwit?”

“Because I believe that Weimar’s son has answers that can enlighten us.”

“We already  _ have _ one of Weimar’s children! Why do we need  _ another _ one?”

“Austria wants one of them alive; how could I say no?”

France glares at them, before shackling Austria with handcuffs. “You are as much of a mess as Britain ever was.”

She finally leaves them alone, and now they can finally find out how they can reattach their souls onto their body.

… This will be no easy task.

And they are building up the confidence to ask the three of them whether it will be okay, staying at the body.

They  _ want _ to be alive, forever.

Until civilizations crumble.

They unsheath the dagger, and now they are mesmerised by its blade, especially the aurorae floating in it.

They snap out of how aesthetic the entire dagger was, and focus on how to bind their souls back with their body.

They stare at the eyeball on their hand— this must go in last, to seal the souls in place.

They eye the symbols; maybe they should make contact with them to release the souls trapped in there?

It’s been four years since they have heard from them; they thought that they were dead.

But judging from the souls swinging back and forth the dagger like lost fishes in a bowl, they are not.

But are they safe? In this dagger, presumably. With the Third Reich, they do not think so.

Are they harmed? They were probably harmed by the Third Reich mentally.

They take a deep breath, before touching the symbols— Europe’s, Asia’s, North America’s, South America’s, Africa’s, and then Antarctica’s.

And then it starts to glow.

Their eye widens in delight, finally accomplishing their one goal in life—

Before everything explodes into a multi-colored abyss.

  
  


They wake up, back in their heads once again— but there was something wrong.

They jump as they stare at their hands; they were the color of gray with white roots climbing onto his skin, an inversion of their environment, which looks like darkness has taken a trip out towards the galaxy, as it is filled with the colors of the United Kingdom’s flag.

They stand, legs shaking, as they look into the lit-up void.

This was where they and the brothers used to meet up.

Then they see a red figure studying images—  _ their _ memories.

“You got… quite close to my friends that easily”, it says in a familiar voice, “what could you possibly  _ want _ with them?”

Their eyes widen, “ _ England _ ? What happened to you?”

The red figure, who turns out to be England, ignores him, digging through his memories like it was a photography reel. “Ah… you still have not given in to France’s wiles. You are dimwitted and full of naivety in this case.”

They stare at their hands and feet, which is still grey. “W-What happened to  _ me _ ?”

“You picked a  _ name _ for yourself?” England scoffs, his tone mocking. “Now that is an image that I enjoy watching.”

“It was a  _ good _ name”, they reply a little  _ too _ defensively.

He scoffs. “That means that I am proud of you, boy.”

England’s comment catches them off guard. “W-What?”

“You had the courage to pick out a name for yourself when the body is not even yours”, England chortles, “silly boy.”

… They’re confused on whether that was an insult or not. “Excuse me?”

“Stop listening to England”, another familiar voice says; this time it was a blue figure speaking. “It is a very horrible idea to be speaking to that lunatic.”

“Just giving him life advice, Scotland”, he replies, waving his hand dismissively. “After six years of living, they are still so naive.”

Scotland ignores his brother and kneels in front of Alex. “Thank you for saving us from a fate worse than death, Alex.”

The green figure, who seems to be Wales, nods. “Is there any favor you’d like for us to grant you?”

Something inside of them lights up at the mention of granting a favor. Excited, they start to say, “I’d like to—”

“It’d like to become one of us”, England arrogantly interrupts, stealing all of Alex’s confidence. England turns to face the others, “It wants to be an immortal, just like us.”

There was an uncomfortable silence once England dropped the bomb.

They were too devastated to be angry at England for blabbing out something they have planned to say once they started this campaign.

Scotland nods slowly, as if he was trying to process their favor. “... I see.”

England laughs, “Can you  _ believe _ what it’s trying to ask of us? A chance for them to  _ live _ ? This is some next-level comedy right here!”

“Well, we  _ have _ to reward him, do we not?” Wales speaks up, “He is the reason why we are back in our bodies.”

England stops laughing, turning to glare at his brother, “Are you  _ serious _ ? Do you  _ want _ to share the reins with someone who is not supposed to exist?”

“Yes, Alex is not supposed to exist”, Wales replies, reaching an arm out towards them, “but the reason why they started existing is all because of a grave miscalculation on our parts— and it is our responsibility to take care of our mistake.”

They did not know whether to feel overwhelmed by the touch or offended that they are called a mistake— both?

Are they a  _ mistake _ ?

“But he is not a mistake”, Scotland says, standing, “he is our savior, and we have neglected him too much.”

Even when they still did not like being called a ‘he’, they felt like tearing up just from the way he said it; gentle and kind, just the way they wanted it to be.

Wales turns to England, “Let him stay— then it can become the immortal of the  _ entire _ British Isles, the immortal of the United Kingdom. We must take responsibility for them.”

“I second that”, Scotland replies, staring at him pointedly, “we both want to let him stay.”

“And judging from Northern Ireland's reaction towards Alex, he seems to like the man”, Wales points out, “ _ you _ are outnumbered.”

England growls his frustration, before turning away, defeated. “Fine, let  _ it _ stay.”

Alex looks at England’s defeated stance, then at Scotland and Wales, who both have confident stances. They did not know what just happened, but they think that England lost the debate about Alex’s existence.

It was honestly endearing, that they were defending  _ them _ .

England turns their head towards Alex, “But on one condition, before everything in this body belongs to  _ you _ properly.”

They tilt their head to the side, “Anything.”

“Give me your body one last time; I want to have a  _ talk _ with France.”

They were surprised to hear that sentence, “M-My  _ body _ ?”

“ _ You _ are Britain now, so that means this is your body now. From here on out, you  _ are _ Britain.”

“I’m… I’m  _ Britain _ now?”

England sighs, exhausted. “Yes you are, you were here for a reason— and that was to be a proper incarnation for the entire British Isles. Congratulations on your promotion, Alex.”

“Does… does that mean that I can be called Britain now?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

“I— I feel happy.”

They are more than happy; they are delighted, that they even wish to cry.

However, England, despite being faceless, found out about what they were about to do. “Hey! Don’t cry right in front of me! Start crying  _ after _ you give me the bloody body! I’ve got to talk to France first!”

Alex takes a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed, “I’m sorry, do you want the body now?”

“Of course I do!”

“Alright then; here you go.”

They step aside, and England walks forward into the void—

Then everything explodes into green, blue, red and white once again.

  
  


Britain emerges from the office with an empty look, two pairs of stabe  _ red _ eyes (no more grey or even colorful eyes that flip back and forth from color to color anymore), and with his hair, which was usually messy underneath Alex’s supervision, smooth and tame.

Clearly, that is not Alex anymore.

The United States was the first one to notice, now putting Austria with the other German cities for trial. “Ah, Dad, are you back? Or did Alex get a makeover just from being near the Nazi’s corpse for too long?”

“Where’s France?” He asks, emptily, “I wish to talk to her.”

“ _ Bretagne _ !” A pair of arms embraced Britain tightly, that even  _ he _ was surprised himself. “I miss you  _ so _ much! We have a lot to talk about since our time apart, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for you!” She kisses him repeatedly on the cheeks, but it no longer makes him feel warm like it used to.

That is…  _ strange _ — they love getting kisses from her, why is it not giving him the same warmth and love as it used to?

_ … Maybe it was because they’ve been in that damn knife for so long that they forgot the love that France felt _ ?

England doesn’t know how to feel about this— it’s like there is no spark inside of him.

His spark with France  _ had _ been dull, but this time, it’s worse.

Maybe they should break it off—

England shakes that thought from his head;  _ no _ , not yet.

He’ll just have to wait and drop the bomb that was making him angry at a later date, but for now he has to focus on  _ trying _ to get himself to feel the same warmth he had whenever he was with France.

She thinks of him as her world, after all.

Honestly, that was sad.

“Hey”, France waves a hand across his face, “were you listening to me?”

He refuses to meet her eyes, “Of course.”

She beams at him, like she had just won the lottery. “Okay, so I was thinking about getting my hair done after we get out of here.”

He stares at one of the windows, “Nice.”

She blinks, “Um… is there something on your mind, Britain?”

“Just the wind.”

She laughs, hitting him on the shoulder fondly— honestly, that move is now the most irritating thing that ever happened to him. “You are so funny,  _ mon amour _ .”

“I suppose that I am.”

A silence occurs between both of them— what was wrong? What was missing? Why is the silence so  _ awkward _ ?

France breaks the silence,  _ desperate _ for a conversation. “Well, Alex told us that we’re supposed to fetch one of Weimar’s children from an insane asylum.”

“I heard.”

“Are you going in there just because Alex said so?”

“A promise is a promise.”

“Are you sure? I mean… I think there’s a reason why the Third Reich threw his son in an asylum in the first place, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure.”  _ Can you stop talking _ ?

“Well, why are we going there?”

“Why not?”

“But we captured Austria now— besides, we have Weimar’s daughter in our custody, so why do we need to save him? The less Germans, the happier we are!”

“Let’s just save him.” He revs up the engine of a car, sitting on the driver’s seat.

She climbs up the passenger seat, much to his frustration; why is she doing this? “Do you want me to come with you?”

_ No _ . “... Yes.”

She smiles, buckling her seatbelt. “I love you so much, Britain.”

That did not give him the feeling of warmth, either. “I know.”

France’s face falls from such a one-sided response to the point she stops talking.

It was a nice change from her running her mouth to the point he got irritated, though.

  
  


They find Weimar’s son three rooms down in the basement later.

Most of the asylum was empty, anyway — aside from the corpses of people lying around — so finding the boy was tricky enough as it is.

When they got to the final room in the basement, they peek into the small window at the top of the door; the two of them found someone inside, legs up to his chest, reading something; now that  _ must _ be West Germany.

Britain —  _ England _ in Britain’s body — is too tired to make sure that it was West, since he and his daughter had to come back to the Pacific to get the Japanese Empire to surrender.

He nods towards France, “Give me the keys, I am sure we found West Germany.”

She rolls her eyes, “ _ Finally _ , now we can have time to ourselves.” She hands him over the keys, and he unlocks the cells that were separating the child from them.

_ I wonder though, how did he end up here _ ? He thinks to himself, as they open the cell to find the boy reading a book, unaware that he was let out into the world.

West looked  _ terribly pitiful _ ; England estimates that he must be an adult already, but due to how awful the living conditions in the asylum is, he must have not grown up properly in the Third Reich’s regime, due to how malnourished and  _ light _ he looked just from analysing him. The young man even had scars and scabs all across his arms and legs, and these limbs were shackled to the floor (what was the reason?).

Judging from the various books and papers with writings on the wall, he must have been given resources to entertain himself during his imprisonment.

(Perhaps this was  _ Prussia’s _ involvement.)

France clears her throat, impatient with how nonchalant the boy was. “ _ Excuse moi _ , are you West Germany?”

The boy jumps when he hears his name, dropping his book to the floor. He stares at the pair with a blank expression. “ _ W-Was _ ?  _ Wer bist du? _ ”

England frowns, clearly not understanding what the boy was trying to say, “We were sent by Austria to retrieve you from the asylum.”

He blinks, moving his arms a little, the faint clinking of the shackles being heard. “ _ Österreich? Wo ist dann Preußen? _ ”

England becomes frustrated, “Young man, speak in English because I am not able to understand a word you are saying.”

He didn’t listen since he kept on babbling. “ _ Ist der Krieg vorbei? Bin ich frei Wer bist du? _ ”

He glares at West, who cowers and averts his gaze. “Young man, I’ll have you know—”

France pinches the bridge of her nose, “ _ Österreich hat uns hierher geschickt, um Sie abzuholen _ .  _ Ich bin Frankreich und das ist Großbritannien. Du bist verhaftet. _ ”

West blinks in confusion. “ _ Verhaftet? Was meinst du? _ ”

“ _ Dies bedeutet, dass Sie und Ihre anderen Familienmitglieder verhaftet sind und auf den Prozess gegen die Verbrechen Ihres Vaters warten. _ ”

He furrows his brows, “ _ Aber ich dachte, du wärst hier, um mich zu befreien ... _ ”

His naivety is almost comparable to Alex’s, and that was saddening to watch.

But meanwhile, he was thinking of where France learned German.

Then England scowls when he remembers that Vichy France had a relationship with the Third Reich.

Fucking Third Reich— rubbing it on his face that he got closer to Vichy France.

He wondered if he touched her, though.

That thought sent shivers up his spine.

“Come on now, West”, Britain says, before remembering that he was shackled. France points towards the keys next to the room’s door, and he uncuffs West from his bed. The blonde-haired boy stares at the handcuff burns in each hand and arm, before running towards the door.

“ _ Pas si vite, petite nuisance _ .” France says, grabbing him by his hair; that stunt causes him to scream out.

“ _ B-Bitte fass mich nicht so fest an _ !” He says, slapping France’s arm with his weaker and stiffer ones to get away from her, but Britain has had  _ enough _ bullshit for today so he walks towards them and locks West’s wrists into a death grip, eliciting a whine from the boy.

When England pushes him out of the cell, France gets a clear view of the young man.

She furrows her brows with a surprised look on her face, like she was deep in thought. “ _ Warten Sie, haben wir uns noch nicht getroffen? _ ”

West stares at her with his light blue eyes in confusion, “ _ Ich glaube nicht, Madam. Dies ist das erste Mal, dass ich dein Gesicht sehe. _ ”

She points a finger at him, and he instantly recoils, “ _ Du siehst einfach so ... vertraut aus, aber ich kann keinen Finger darauf legen. _ ”

“He looks a lot like the German Empire, does he not?” England speaks up, trying not to look and sound frustrated. They were talking without him.

France thinks for a moment, before nodding, somewhat convinced. “I believe so.” She smiles as she thinks of a joke. “Ah, no wonder why Prussia loved him so much; he looked too much like his dead son that it made him feel guilty.”

West perks up at Prussia’s name. “ _ Wird Preußen dort auf mich warten? _ ”

She glares at him, “ _ Er ist tot _ .”

His entire face droops. “ _ T-Tot _ .” He says calmly, shakily. He looks away, “ _ Preußen ist ... weg. _ ”

France ignores the young man talking to himself, smiling at Britain. “Well, now that  _ that’s _ settled, shall we talk and catch up?”

“Take West to the others”, he replies, pushing the responsibility towards France. “The United States and I are going back to the Pacific.”

Without even looking back, he heads up toward the stairs.

France stares at him with an inconsolable look in her eyes.

* * *

**THE JAPANESE EMPIRE SURRENDERS**

* * *

_ You’re still not going to give me the body back _ ?  _ Alex asks, tired of only emerging out of political necessities, rather than out of personal matters. I want to emerge into the physical world now, England, please. _

_ I gave you free rein when we watched Teikoku’s brother sign the surrender, though, England says, lost in thought. This is crucial to France’s life. _

_ You still haven’t told France the reason why you were avoiding her affections? Alex sighs, Keep going lower, will you? You’re not  _ allowed _ to play with her feelings and lead her on like that. _

_ Well, it is  _ **_her_ ** _ fault, England replies, I’m just waiting for the best moment to strike, alright? _

_ Your relationship is as good as dead if you keep thinking it was her fault it went to shit, Alex points out, You’re not even  _ trying _ ; you’re tiring her out. _

_ Then what am I supposed to do? I do not like the way she clings to me, or the way she kisses me and holds me tight, or even the way she talks. She is just starting to annoy me. _

_ Then that means you don’t like the prospect of a relationship with her anymore _ —  _ break it off, for your sake and hers. _

_ There must be another way to make me like her again… England muses, ignoring Alex’s advice. Then he remembers the rings that he bought in case she wants to get married. I know!  _ Married life _ with her will make me feel better! _

_ … No it won’t. _

_ We won’t know until we try it. _

_ Scotland sighs, joining the discussion. You’ll be even more miserable in a marriage. Remember what happened with Ireland? _

_I didn’t like her in the first place anyway, England replies, thinking up the many times he can propose to France in the most romantic ways possible. But with France, it’s_ different— _she_ **likes** _me._

_ She likes Britain, Alex replies, But now that  _ **I** _ am Britain, I am sure that she’ll have to step off. _

_ End the relationship, Scotland says, glaring at his brother,  _ **Now** _. _

_ No! England replies, We have to get an apology out of France first! _

_Why are you wasting_ your _time trying to get an apology out of France when you’re not even_ **trying** _to tell her what’s making you mad?_

“ _ Bretagne _ ?” France pulls England out of his mind, and he stares at her. “You’ve been lost in your mind these days.”

He stares at the sun, “Just thinking.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing.”

She takes advantage of the silence by pressing her body toward his. “Oh  _ Bretagne _ , you should start telling me about what is on your mind.”

“You haven’t been honest, either.”

“But we know what we both want, correct?”

He gives her a look, before looking at the buildings around them. “... Possibly.”

Another silence.

Which means that France is thinking of another way to drive this conversation back in course.

“H-How are you?” She asks, smiling at him.

“Fine.”

She seems to be expecting something.

She averts her gaze, still smiling, “Where are we headed? You know that we’re supposed to be rebuilding our economies after the war.”

“I know.”

“Wanna hear something funny?”

“Okay.”

“So… remember how the Dutch Royal Family stayed in Canada during the entire war?”

“Yes. Well, Alex remembers that little detail.”

“So the Netherlands thought it was a good idea to ship a hundred  _ thousand _ tulips to Ottawa as a thank you!” She starts to laugh; honestly it was not that funny.

He lightly chuckles, “That’s comedic.”

When the laughter died down, there was silence once again.

What was missing?

She picks up the conversation again, determined to chat until she returns to her home. “Do you have anything to do this Saturday?”

“I’m busy.”

“Oh.”

Britain turns to her. “And you are not?”

She fidgets with her fingers, “Well, during the war, I’ve gathered inspiration to make another novel; it is about a woman trapped in a loveless marriage with a man she hates, but falls in love with an air force captain. Do you…  _ like _ the synopsis?”

“It sounds good, but it also feels familiar to all your other romantic novels— all flowery language, yet it has no impact on my feelings whatsoever.”

She looks up at him, “But… my novels, ‘The Siren and the Woman’, ‘Oh, My Love’, are all inspired by our relationship together. Do you think that  _ those _ are bad?  _ You _ were the one who inspired me to write and gave me a few ideas here and there.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad synopsis”, he replies, staring at nothing. “I just think that the tropes that you write into your novels are now…  _ overused _ , specific. Your writing, even with flowery language, seems to be a mask hiding the fact that all of your characters are bland.”

“Is that— Is that how you think of my novels?” she asks, her eyes full of hurt.

“It’s just criticism— brush it off, or if you take it seriously, then you are going places.”

The two of them walk in silence; France’s hand slowly lets go of Britain’s.

She stops by her home, and she kisses Britain on the cheek. “Well, I’ll see you when I see you.”

He nods, “You too.”

“I love you.”

“... Yes.”

  
  


When France closes the door, she falls onto the floor, finding it hard to breathe.

She was…  _ so tired _ , it was like she was physically drained just from talking to the love of her life.

She  _ shouldn’t _ be drained whenever she’s with someone she is comfortable with; they both have told each other their deepest and darkest secrets, after all.

But Britain’s not even cooperating with her, not even giving her any sign that he  _ wants _ to continue the conversation.

He didn’t even say he loved  _ her _ back.

What  _ was _ that?

Does he… not  _ love her _ anymore?

She inhales, and exhales, clutching her knees tightly to her chest; she tries to relax herself, but it was so hard to get herself to calm down.

She shakes her head— she shouldn’t be overthinking the reason why he did not tell her he loves her back; he  _ must _ be tired from fighting during the war, from being stuck in that wretched weapon. That dagger was the root of  _ all _ her problems.

If they weren’t abducted, then she and Britain would still have their timeless romance without any hindrances.

Yes, the dagger and the war was to blame.

It’s ruining their relationship.

There was a small hope left in her— but she can  _ salvage _ what is left of their relationship.

Then, he’ll start saying ‘I love you’ back to her.

And she can be happy.

And everything will be back to normal.

She smiles at her brilliant plan, wiping her tears away as her heartbeat calms down.

She’ll make their relationship flourish again.

* * *

She’s a living wreck— she can’t get a single conversation to be carried on, or to be natural again around him again.

She’s scared.

She’s so  _ tired _ .

She feels uncomfortable around him.

It’s not the same.

It’s gone.

It’s dead.

Nothing is the same.

He…

He doesn’t give any fucks about her anymore.

He doesn’t  _ love _ her anymore.

Should she end it?

“The first draft of the first chapter...” She perks up at Britain’s voice, who was reading the manuscript of her first draft. “It  _ definitely _ has an impactful writing, and characters I can immerse myself in. I am liking this already.”

Then Britain gives her a smile, the first time she’s seen ever since they got back together again.

It was enough to get her heart working.

She shakes her head;  _ let’s bide our time _ .

She continues to write, up until it was the twenty-fifth chapter of the first draft.

No matter how tired her hands were.

She dedicates this novel to him.

* * *

England, once again, takes free reins over Britain’s body to finally tell France about what’s been on their mind for months.

Of course, on arrival, she kisses him, pink blush on her cheeks, “Seems that you and Alex have been making amends in there, hm  _ Bretagne _ ?”

He stares at the pond, at the ducks swimming on it. “We are.”

She sits down right next to him. “Ah, how I missed this.”

His eyes were fixated on the ducks in the pond. “Me too.”

“Do you think it’s beautiful?” She leans onto him.

“Yes.”  _ When are you going to tell her _ ?

She laughs, “You’re a one-syllable man now, huh?”

“I suppose so.”

She laughs, “Well, I’ve finally written up to thirty chapters of the first draft of my novel— my hands may hurt but it is worth three hundred pages.”

“Go and rest next time.”

She was taken aback of the way his voice sounded— it sounded like a well-prepared line, rather than a compassionate or caring way of showing that they love the other person.

She shakes that thought off.  _ Nonsense _ .

She gives him another kiss to control herself. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

“How’s the country?”

“Trying to get back on its feet.”

She thinks of another question, “Um… do you—”

“You slept with Poland”, he interrupts, catching her off guard.

Her heart starts to beat out of fear.

“Care to explain that?”

She was usually almost always confident but… confrontations with her loved ones make her scared, anxious.

(She’s not the same person she used to be.)

Something is making her slowly suffocate, and she starts to sweat.

She stands, “I-I got to go.”

He stands, outraged, “Are you fucking  _ running away _ from me?”

She starts to walk faster, “I have something to do.”

She has to calm down, she has to explain herself.

But she can’t think straight because everything is now just a kaleidoscope of colors, and the world was spinning.

She was scared.

She was so scared.

She starts to sob.

Why was she so scared of her love?

She loves him!

_ Right _ ?

* * *

He corners her on an empty corner of the office four days since they had last talked.

He looked angry— that must mean that Alex was not the one possessing the body this time. “So you’re going to ignore me for the rest of your days now, hm? I admit, that’s a bad look for someone as confident as you.”

She tries to gain the upperhand of this conversation. She stares at him with a confident frown. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t like how childish you were being back at the park.”

Her legs are shaking, and she feels like crying, but she has to stay calm— for him to see that she is undaunted.

Why is she so afraid? Isn’t he the love of her life?

“Well, I’ll give you the chance to defend yourself. Did you sleep with Poland?”

“... Yes, I did.” There is no use beating around the bush.

The confirmation just makes England  _ angrier _ .

“You think that it was okay?”

She shakes her head, “Of course it was not.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“B-Because I was lonely…” It was okay to tell only half of the truth, would it not?

He sneers, “You think  _ that’s _ a reasonable option?”

She shakes her head, “N-No.”

“You could’ve  _ waited _ for me to come back, but why didn’t you?”

“I-I just want to feel like I’m not lonely anymore.”

“Try thinking up other ways to make yourself feel alive and happy rather than sleeping with random men, then.”

“But that’s the way that made me feel loved.” She leans onto him. “I’m  _ pathetic _ without you.”

He raises a brow, “Yes you are.”

She looks up at him with hurt in her eyes. “What?”

He scoffs, shaking his head in a disappointed manner. “You cannot control yourself without someone by your side? Then that makes you pathetic.”

She shakes her head, “ _ Bretagne _ — I don’t get it— why are you like this—”

“I mean, you were even courted by the  _ Third Reich _ ”, he interrupts her, “that must mean that you felt…  _ something _ for that bastard.”

“Are you  _ serious with me right now _ ?” She says, trying not to sob. “I was a  _ puppet _ state! I was not in my right mind, and neither was the other half of me!”

“... I don’t know the entire story.”

“But I didn’t even  _ want _ to have a relationship with the Third Reich! He fucking manipulated my other half to courting him!”

“I don’t even know if that is true.”

She is close to snapping, close to telling this man every single thing he did to her, but she can’t, since she’s already so distraught. “I  _ am _ telling the truth!  _ Believe me _ !”

“Maybe I treated you harshly”, he rattles on, like he was unaware that France is starting to sob, “or maybe you deserve it.”

She shakes her head, “I’m sorry, I am  _ so sorry _ for cheating on you— I couldn’t bear to find myself alone again, when you, only  _ you _ can make me happy.” She clings onto his coat, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Britain makes France let go of his coat, stepping aside, giving her the coldest glare that she has ever seen on his face. “You cheated on me— I won’t accept such an insincere apology.”

(He says, as if she hadn’t seen him with prostitutes and other women behind her back.)

When he leaves, a dam breaks.

He… disregarded her.

He… doesn’t care about her.

He… doesn’t love her anymore.

That’s the scary thing.

He doesn’t seem to consider her feelings anymore.

That he…  _ left _ her.

She shakes her head, still crying.

_ No _ . She stands, lips trembling.  _ This doesn’t have to end _ .

She can…  _ still try _ .

She can fix this relationship.

She stops crying, sniffling.

She can fix it— after all, that’s what she can do.

She just can’t give up.

He’s the only person who can make her feel okay.

If she can’t salvage it…

Then she will be alone again.

She didn’t want that.

Not anymore.

-

_ I thought you loved her, Scotland says as Britain walks away. But you treat her the way you treat the whores that gave their bodies to you. _

_Well, I thought I did, England replies, but turns out she_ **was** _just a whore._

_ You spent twenty years in a loveless relationship that France deemed as love, Alex says with a disappointed tone in their voice. Imagine how that could impact the other party. _

_ I’m  _ done _ with her, he says, time to find another one. _

_ Alex glares at him, J-Just like that? What about the way she feels? Are her feelings processing in your thought process? _

_ England stares at them, Don’t talk back to me like that _ —  _ France is now history, and there is nothing that we can do. _

_ Because you gave up, Wales says, you were done playing with your toy and decided to give her back. _

_ Alex shakes their head. You truly do not know the consequences of your actions. _

_ She hurt me. _

_ You hurt her back. _

_ You don’t care about her anymore, Alex says, just end it. _

_ I will, tomorrow. _

* * *

“ _ Bonjour, Bretagne _ ”, she says, acting composed and cool, drinking her glass of wine. She had that small smirk on her face, like she was calculating a problem that she was meant to be solved. “I see that you’ve accepted my invitation.”

They nod, sitting down across from her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She wrings her hands, calm and composed, the femme fatale that England had desired for so many long years. “I want to talk about yesterday, of how that ended, of my true feelings.”

She is going to use her card— to tell him how she truly feels (how uncomfortable she felt with him, how alone and guilty he made her feel, how draining she feels all because he gives her one-worded replies), before asking Britain if he wants to end things with her, so that she and Alex — the  _ real _ Britain — can go by their lives undisturbed.

If they look taken aback… that must mean that they  _ want _ to continue this.

That is the best case scenario.

She takes a sip of her wine, “I wish to break up with you, due to how—”

“I wish for the same thing as well”, they say, standing. “England doesn’t like you now— and he wants to end things with you.”

She blinks, “E-England?”

They ignore her. “I’ll be moving to another apartment so that you and I will not be able to reach each other; goodbye, and see you in another meeting, Madam France.”

She stares at them, dumbstruck, before she forces a smile on her face. “T-Thank you so much for your kindness,  _ Bretagne _ .”

She wanted to cry.

But not here, not in front of them.

How can he do this to her?

France smiles as Britain’s back is turned, as the planet that their sun revolved around in started ending, shattering right before her eyes, and she could only stand back and watch.

She should’ve reached out to Britain, but her pride is already wounded, and she’s not making it injure itself any longer— this is her and Britain’s choice, and she must withstand the consequences.

France smiles as she walks the way back home, her thoughts filling her head with the many memories that had built her relationship with the former Britain.

Now they were just a way to make her eyes burn.

She jumps as an automobile honks at her, and she realizes that she was in the middle of a busy road; France takes a step back, back into the sidelines, trying to control the breaking dam inside of her.

But her head won’t help, still flashing memories,  _ beautiful _ memories, of her and Britain.

She bites her lip, walking ahead.

France is almost there— just a few more steps away.

And  _ then _ she can process what she had just lost.

Once she is in front of her door, she fumbles for her keys, her hands shaking as she puts the key in the keyhole. She lets out a shaky sigh of relief, opening her door and then going inside.

When she was inside, the tears and the thoughts that she had quelled in her mind were released.

_ United Kingdom _ .

At first, she was silently crying, kneeling on the floor as tears stream down her face, body shaking at the thought of never being loved by someone again.

_ Third try for a relationship _ .

There was a time that she had loved him— back in the days where they both  _ tried _ to advance their relationship, together. Her silent crying turns to shaky sobs, her hair and make-up becoming messier as she unleashes a lot more sobs. Then she realized these last few months that this relationship is dead.

It’s  _ gone _ .

And she’s not going to get another like this.

_ Nineteen years and a month _ .

Then her sadness of what had transpired turned into one of anger— a fiery kind of anger.

They cut her off.

They cut her off when she was about to say something.

Fucking prick.

With her anger taking over, she stands, stalking into her bedroom; where every single piece of Britain still lingers.

She slammed the door open, tears still streaming down her eyes.

_ Did you mean it? _

She opened her wardrobe, full of dresses and clothing she had accumulated over the years— most of them were gifts from Britain.

_ Did you ever fucking love me? _

She took them all, one-by-one, and she started to tear them all apart.

_ Was it a lie _ ?

She must’ve looked miserable, tearing fabric to fabric like a rabid dog is let loose in her house; she didn’t care about basic decency anymore, all she cared about is  _ getting rid of Britain’s stains in her goddamn home _ .

She’s not a  _ toy _ that is used and thrown away once she became less appealing to be with for them.

A ton of emotions were swimming all around her head, but it was mostly red rage and blue sadness, about how much she regretted it.

_ You didn’t even hesitate _ .

She takes her shoes off— a gift from Britain.

_ Did you even consider my feelings? _

Most of her dresses were mostly gifts or suggestions from Britain.

_ Or did you just want to get rid of me when you finally saw an opening _ ?

She throws her shoes onto the garbage can she kept near her desk (for writing manuscripts), reminding herself to burn the objects that she couldn't tear apart once she’s done with her room.

_ I loved you! I thought you loved me the same way! _

She unzips her dress, mad with fury; why did she let Britain’s decisions control her personal life?!

_ I hesitated breaking it off with you because I might hurt your feelings _ —  _ turns out you didn’t consider mine _ .

In a matter of minutes, her entire room was full of torn apart fabric and laces, the bedsheets where Britain had touched her intimately peeled off from her bed, her pillows on the floor, her mirror where she had looked her absolute best for Britain tilted sideways, and her wardrobe empty.

There was no planet in the first place.

She started to dig into her own skin, trying to get rid of the way Britain had touched her, the breath on her shoulders, the hands between her thighs; they’re gone.

The thing between her and him was gone—

How can a relationship that lasted for twenty years just _fall_ _apart_ in a matter of seconds?

Was it that fragile?

Was it that weak?

Was she not  _ trying _ enough?

(She should’ve tried harder!)

Her perception of her perfect, and happy relationship with Britain starts to break.

No— it was already broken.

She just chose to deny it.

With a scream she pounds the floors with her own hands, shaking and sobbing.

Why did they have to cut her off?

She was already  _ getting _ to the reason  _ why _ she was about to break it off!

They denied her closure.

The relationship that she had spoken so highly about, the reason why she was able to write idea-driven stories, the relationship that she had  _ dedicated her life _ to flourish, and the relationship that she had  _ bragged _ about towards people is gone.

It shatters with an ear-piercing shriek.

Despite being with Britain for two decades… he chooses to leave and destroy this relationship from a single inconvenience.

Fine; if the British brothers  _ want _ to cast her aside, to forget about all of this, then she should as well.

Then in another few seconds she breaks down again— trying to forget him is hard, so hard.

It was like she had to sever an emotional link that had been so special to her.

She can’t help but wonder— did Britain ever think of the consequences? Who do they think they are?

France’s dark blue eyes land on a picture frame with her and Britain, smiling at the camera— it may be grainy and monochrome, but  _ oh _ , it had been the happiest day of her life.

Now it was just spitting on her face, mocking her of something that is now out of her reach.

In a matter of seconds, she is up on her feet once again, her brows furrowing with an unrelenting rage. Teeth bared, she looks at the picture frame one last time— of her smiling sweetly at Britain, eyes shining, while his eyes were somewhere else, dead and absent.

With gritted teeth, she throws the picture frame into the wall, the only piece of their intimacy gone.

* * *

Britain puts their clothes on the boxes absent-mindedly, a debate going on over their head as they fold the sleeves of the last of their clothes— they want to move out as soon as possible.

But they can’t concentrate with the headache and ear-piercing voices in their head.

They groan, biting their lip.

_ Will you cut that out? Britain tells England, who was playing an accordion in the vast space of the fusion’s body. _

_ No, England replies, solemnly playing the instrument with able fingers. _

_ He’s been like that for a few hours, Scotland replies, best not go botherin’ him about what’s goin’ on in his noggin’. _

_ It’s obvious that he’s been playing the accordion, because that’s the only thing I’ve been hearing for  _ **_hours_ ** _. Britain points out. _

_ I thought you had no regrets breaking it off with the bonnie lass, Scotland says, crossing his arms, now you’re acting like a woman in love! _

_ I just remembered the good times I and France had, England replies, now I just miss the way she looked at and held me. _

_ But you didn’t make an effort for it to last, Britain says with an emotionless expression, now we all made things awkward with her. _

_ We still like France, England says, now strumming a cello’s strings, so let’s not make things awkward between us and pretend nothing happened. _

_ Wouldn’t that make France more hurt than relieved? Wales speaks up, strumming a crwth. _

_ England glares at the group,  _ **_I’m_ ** _ the only person who has enough relationship experience out of you four, and I am certain that France  _ **_clearly_ ** _ wants to forget this ever happened in the first place. _

_ I think that’s going to hurt more than mend, Britain points out, and before England can open his mouth, they already come back to the living world _ .

They sigh in exhaustion, closing the box once they were done folding their remaining clothes. They catch a glimpse of themself in the mirror— they look way more tired than they used to be, but healthier and formidable nonetheless. They focused their eyes on their hair; it was too short for their liking.

They subconsciously twirl the free lock of hair with their finger, thinking about what to do with their hair.

They look down at the box, covered with their hands, then back at their reflection in the mirror. “Maybe I should let my hair grow this time.”

They’re Britain now.

It feels strange and vigorous, to actually  _ become _ the person who they thought was not them in the first place.

It still felt too good to be true, after all this time.

They don’t have the heart to celebrate it  _ physically _ , but right now they’re smiling the biggest smile they could muster.

Thank god they’re moving out of this apartment soon— they never liked how spacey yet lonely it is.

(Maybe it was a way to accommodate France’s appearance— but that’s gone now.)

Maybe they can make arrangements and move into a small yet comfortable apartment.

Then they can have tea and scones everyday, all day, whenever they want to— because that’s what living is like.

(Well,  _ part _ of living, they suppose.)

They smile; that would be nice.

It was also peculiar, having two working eyes, but it  _ was _ better than having only one— they can see the entire world, and not only  _ half _ of the world they have come to know, and marvel at its beauty, its  _ whole _ beauty.

The world is full of the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, but they decide to follow the former Britain’s way of staring at the horizon: looking at everything through rose-tinted lenses, feigning ignorance at any given subject. Even their dark grey eyes had turned into a blue as dark as the ocean when they became Britain— there are so many things about them that they don’t know yet, and will have the time in the world to find out.

Maybe they can start buying lavenders to put in their new apartment.

Lavenders… they really liked lavenders.

Britain’s dark blue eyes land on the box with the pair of rings, and their eyes glow; memories of France come rushing back, and while they were good at blocking out feelings and emotions, England’s sorrow and regret became a match for their deflection.

They shake their head, sighing. Maybe they should get rid of that— England’s feelings of rue and bitterness will distract them even further.

They pick it up, contemplating if a twenty year-old ring can be refunded, or if they should just throw it into a river and let the feelings drown along with them.

They think for a moment, staring at the rings with a blank face, before shrugging and going for the second option.

Britain stands, putting the box of rings in their pocket, before opening the door;

They stop.

Why did they stop?

They blink, their face morphing to a thoughtful expression.

Then something clicks.

The brunette takes the box of rings from their pocket, before putting it in one of the emptier boxes, sealing it tightly.

Rings  _ can _ be repaired, can it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Abschied- Goodbye  
> Was? Wer bist du- What? who are you  
> Österreich? Wo ist dann Preußen- Austria? Then where is Prussia  
> Ist der Krieg vorbei? Bin ich frei Wer bist du- Is the war over? Am I free, and who are you  
> Österreich hat uns hierher geschickt, um Sie abzuholen- Austria sent us here to pick you up  
> Ich bin Frankreich und das ist Großbritannien- I am France and this is Great Britain  
> Du bist verhaftet- You are under arrest  
> Verhaftet? Was meinst du- Arrested? What do you mean  
> Dies bedeutet, dass Sie und Ihre anderen Familienmitglieder verhaftet sind und auf den Prozess gegen die Verbrechen Ihres Vaters warten- It means that you and your other family members are under arrest and awaiting for the trial of your father's crimes  
> Aber ich dachte, du wärst hier, um mich zu befreien- But I thought you were here to set me free...  
> Pas si vite, petite nuisance- Not so fast, you little nuisance  
> Bitte fass mich nicht so fest an- Please don't hold me so tight  
> Warten Sie, haben wir uns noch nicht getroffen- Wait, haven't we met before  
> Ich glaube nicht, Madam. Dies ist das erste Mal, dass ich dein Gesicht sehe- I don't think so, madam. This is the first time I've seen your face  
> Du siehst einfach so ... vertraut aus, aber ich kann keinen Finger darauf legen- You just look so ... familiar, but I can't put a finger on why  
> Wird Preußen dort auf mich warten- Will Prussia wait for me there  
> Er ist tot- he is dead  
> Preußen ist ... weg- Prussia is ... gone  
> Now for some fun facts:  
> 1\. I got most of the lore for immortals from my original fiction, which also deals with gods. I had the greatest idea to fuse them together, though.  
> 2\. France and Britain's relationship made me both excited and sad to write, since the relationship was based off of a failed friendship that happened recently  
> 3\. Writing the end of this part hurt me a lot, and i hope you felt satisfied by the ending. The relationship is supposed to make you think, "Did they care about one another?", "Were they really in love?" those kinds of questions  
> 4\. The last part was supposed to be in the epilogue, but it sounds like an extension of the fourth part so I fused them both together.  
> Well, that's the end, but if you want to know why the heck West Germany was in that asylum, you might like what's in store for New Year.


End file.
